


A Bed of Thorns - Part Two: The Dark Castle

by Nym



Series: A Bed of Thorns [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28976349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: A new home.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: A Bed of Thorns [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123715
Comments: 64
Kudos: 79





	1. The Dark Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new home.

They called it the Dark Castle, which sounded very ominous, but Belle's first impression was of a building more imposing than sinister. Details were lost on her in the darkness and the blinding snow, the storm worsening fast as the carriage wound its way up the last mile of road. It was a miracle that they were able to keep going on these mountain roads.

No, not a miracle, Belle reminded herself. _Magic._ She'd need to get used to that idea, and quickly!

At a slight gesture from Rumplestiltskin, the carriage stopped smoothly before a tall curtain wall. Although the wall was built of imposing granite, clearly for defence, the double wrought-iron gate set into it was more suited to a pleasure garden than to a castle.

"My lady." Rumplestiltskin gestured towards the gate, not quite catching her eye. "Your new home."

He jumped down from the carriage first, reaching back for Belle's hand and grasping tight while she jumped from the step and let him half lift her over a snowdrift. She landed ungracefully on the patch of clear stone at the foot of the insubstantial gate. At once, Belle wrapped her arms about herself, pulling Rumplestiltskin's cloak tighter about her shoulders. It had no hood, and the wind felt like pure ice on her face, blowing horizontally and driving much of the fine snow with it. She couldn't see more than an arm's reach in front of her.

Beyond the gates, a long, straight path ran in a straight line through the middle of what might have been formal gardens, now mounded with snow. The pathway itself was clear but soaking wet. The slushy, frozen damp soaked through Belle's slippers as she leaned into the gale and battled her way towards the large building ahead. Walking ahead of her, Rumplestiltskin barely seemed to notice the wind or the cold.

Halfway up the path, Rumplestiltskin turned to wait for Belle and saw her difficulty. Reaching across her waist to steady her, he hurried her with him into the relative shelter of a marble portico at the top of a short flight of shallow marble steps. Large double doors swung open at Rumplestiltskin's approach, and he shooed Belle quickly inside. The doors slammed shut behind them with an echoing, heart-stopping noise. When Rumplestiltskin let go of her, Belle lost any sense of up or down in the absolute darkness.

Such darkness—like being underground. Chilled air and the damp scent of disuse. Belle could hear her own heart beating in the hollow silence. This place felt vast. And empty. It was warmer inside than it had been out in the wind, but she started to shiver, her teeth threatening to chatter.

Snapping his fingers loudly, Rumplestiltskin brought light—sconces and candles around the room suddenly bright with fire, revealing a grand marble hall—all columns, gilt, and high polish across the patterned expanse of black and white tiles. When Belle took a few steps forward, her wet feet nearly slipped on the marble.

Not knowing which way to go, Belle looked back for Rumplestiltskin. Still at the outer door, he watched her curiously, waiting to see what she would do. Then he remembered himself or noticed her uncertainty, found his manners, and came quickly to her side.

"You're chilled. Come," he said, striding ahead of her towards a wide, short staircase directly opposite the doors. Belle followed carefully, glancing from left to right to get her bearings. A large table stood at the centre of the room, giving her somewhere to steady herself for several paces. Large, white double doors led off left and right, all shut.

The staircase divided into two after the first short flight, taking opposite directions. Belle had barely set foot inside the place, and already her new home felt like a maze.

Rumplestiltskin led her up the left-hand staircase, more lights appearing ahead of him, one by one. Glancing back just before they turned the first corner, Belle noted that the lights behind them didn't dim when they moved on. This castle came alive when its master came home.

Marble gave way to wood after the first landing, the stairs narrowing and branching. It _was_ a maze, and Belle, thoroughly daunted, made sure to stay close at Rumplestiltskin's heels. They took a smaller and still narrower staircase from the second-floor landing. This wound counter-clockwise for three tight turns, opening onto an awkwardly-shaped landing. A single flight of narrow stairs continued on upwards into darkness, winding left. To Belle's right was an arched door made of exotic, polished wood with a beautiful red grain—the light wood and ornamental fittings out of place amidst the heavy old oak. Two weathered stone steps led up to the door from the landing. Rumplestiltskin stopped there, one foot on the next stair up, waiting for Belle to join him in the cramped space.

"Your rooms," he said gallantly, the pretty door opening inward in answer to a careless flick of his fingers. He ushered her inside with an outstretched arm and a small bow. With a nervous smile of thanks, Belle lifted her damp skirts and climbed the two steep steps to the threshold.

She stopped stared, her mouth falling open in delight at the gorgeous warmth before her eyes. Everything about the Dark Castle had been, well, _dark_ —gloomy and cold in tones of dark wood and stark marble. More than that, the place felt like neglect. Not this room. This one was bright with candlelight, warmed by a roaring fire, and felt like a welcome home.

Rumplestiltskin had promised her comfort, but this was _luxury_. Belle took a few steps into the room and then stopped, agog. To her left was a huge four-poster bed, canopied and curtained with intricate tapestries. To her right, the fireplace. A single red carpet covered much of the floor, swirled with a repeating cream or gold pattern. The one tall, arched window was so delicately leaded that Belle took it to be a single pane of glass for a moment. A few feet to either side of the bed's giant carved headboard, doors led off to more rooms. And Belle's old, white leather trunk stood at the foot of the bed, ready and waiting for her.

"My rooms?" she asked, turning in a slow circle before facing Rumplestiltskin again, awestruck. He

"You were expecting a dungeon?" He flashed his teeth in that evil smile of his, but couldn't hide genuine pleasure at her reaction.

"Of course not." Had she? No! Not after the ring, the spinning. Not after last night. "It's lovely. It's _beautiful_. Thank you."

Rumplestiltskin hadn't followed her into the room. He bounced on his toes on the narrow step beyond the threshold, hands behind his back. Discomfited by the praise, he nodded curtly and turned to leave the way they'd just come.

"I'll send you a meal presently. Call out for anything else you desire. Goodnight, then."

Running back to the door, Belle found her voice just before Rumplestiltskin made the first turn of the descent.

"Uh... Goodnight!" she called weakly. It was too late to think of anything better to say. He'd already gone!

Slowly, Belle closed the door. The black iron fittings were ornate, the effect pretty against the unusual, gold-red wood. The lock had a golden key in it, and there were sturdy bolts on the inside. A door she could lock: that choice had never been hers in her father's house. If she needed privacy, another woman saw to it that she wasn't disturbed, but to be alone—to be able to shut out even her husband if she wanted to—was a novel and startling freedom. She turned the key just because she could, then took it out of the lock and examined it. It looked far too delicate for such a heavy lock. Yet it turned with ease, not bending at all. More magic. More of Rumplestiltskin's impossible gold.

Belle didn't intend to shut people out, but there were things she'd prefer to do alone. One of those was to sit on the bed and take off her ruined slippers and soggy stockings.

The carpet felt wonderfully thick and warm beneath her chilled, bare feet. Belle spent a few minutes near the fire, warming herself through. Once she stopped shivering, she tried the other doors. The one nearest the window opened onto a curving, simply-furnished little room with another large plate-glass window. It had a couch, a table with two chairs, and an assortment of empty shelves, nooks, and bookcases. Belle, draping the cloak over the back of a chair to dry, could clearly picture herself sitting beneath the window with a book, those shelves filled with treasures.

The second room, the one nearest the door, had no window and was an even odder shape. This suite must curve around, following the staircase. That would account for the second chamber's sloping ceiling, which narrowed so far as to be almost triangular in shape. This room had a copper bathtub and a matching basin on a washstand; a stool with a copper chamber pot; and another stack of those thick towels with Rumplestiltskin's initial at the corner.

Belle's bath at home was a tin thing—small and cramped. It took three maids a good hour to fill to hip-depth using kettles carried up from the kitchen. How many maids and kettles would it take to fill _this_ tub? The rim came as high as Belle's thigh, and it was almost long enough for her to lie down in.

The bath back at the inn, though—surely that must have been done with magic? This one was probably the same. Belle made a face and backed out into the bedchamber, unwilling to find out just now. Tomorrow, perhaps, in the light of a new day.

She'd expected a knock at the door to announce the arrival of the promised meal. She would've welcomed the company of one of Rumplestiltskin's servants—someone less forbidding to talk with while she found her feet; who might answer her questions about the castle without making her feel silly for asking. But the smell of roasted meat led her back to the sitting room. Supper waited on the table that had been empty a minute earlier—a plate beneath a domed silver cover, a stemmed glass, a silver jug of mead and another of good, clear water. The door was still locked. No-one had come in.

Belle sighed. The magic amazed her, enchanted her even, but she really would have liked someone to talk to.

It came as no surprise that the food was excellent—rich fowl in a sauce of fruits and wine, with vegetables that were long out of season in Belle's homeland. She ate everything, ravenous now that her nerves had settled a bit.

Comfortably full and warmed from the inside, Belle carried the chair through to the bedroom and sat in front of the fire to warm her toes and dry out the hem of her dress.

She could have dozed in the chair but made herself get up and move, wandering around the room to look at all the decorative touches—the carved wood, the exquisite fabrics and the wrought-iron candelabra touched with gilding and sky blue enamel.

She'd lost any sense of time on the road, driving into the dark skies of a mountain storm. It felt like it should be early evening now, but outside was pitch black beyond a halo of swirling snow caught in the light from her window. Red velvet curtains on gold rings pulled across smoothly, blocking out the night.

There was no sound, Belle realised, a moment later: she couldn't hear that storm, that howling wind, any more than she'd heard it from inside Rumplestiltskin's carriage. With the curtains closed, she could pretend it wasn't even there.

Was Rumplestiltskin coming back tonight? Was anyone coming to greet her? Call out, he'd said, but to who? Did she have a maid of her own? How would she ever manage a household as vast as this? Rumplestiltskin would need a whole army of servants just to keep the place clean and in good repair!

Daunted again, Belle distracted herself by fetching the books from her trunk and taking them to the sitting room. Five familiar books filling a corner of an empty shelf in an equally empty room. Far from making it feel more lived-in, more like home, the sight of her books there made Belle suddenly, desperately homesick. She quickly went back to her trunk to look for something to do.

She'd forgotten how carelessly she'd stuffed in her wedding dress and the nightdress. There was a small wardrobe beside the window, but the wedding dress alone would fill it. She lifted the heavy silk and shook it out, draping it over the footboard of the bed and stroking her hand over some of the creases. Well, it wasn't as if she'd ever wear it again. She should deal with her everyday things first.

Sorting out her clothing occupied Belle for some time. There'd been no time to plan what to bring. Lotte had done her best, cramming Belle's dresses and underthings into her trunk. She'd taken out most of Belle's trousseau, and just as well. The household linens seemed as unneeded here as they would have been in the ducal palace.

Belle investigated the bed. The draperies could be pulled shut all around to trap warmth, or left open at the foot to get the benefit of the fire. Her fingertips told her that the tapestry was priceless. The topmost layer of the bedclothes was red velvet trimmed with white fur and embroidered all over with large flowers of gold. She was relieved to find plain, white linens and a woollen blanket beneath it. They were much more delicate than anything she'd used before, but at least Belle felt that she belonged in the same world as a sensible linen sheet or a good blanket.

Rumplestiltskin wasn't an idle boaster. She'd want for nothing here—except maybe for company.

Belle felt guilty for being sad amidst all this beauty. It was ungrateful, but it was difficult to be grateful when Rumplestiltskin wasn't here to thank. She didn't know where he'd gone or if he'd be back. Even if they were still strangers to one another, she knew him better than she knew anyone else here. He'd abandoned her to the unknown.

And she was homesick. That nagged the way hunger did, a pull that she couldn't just ignore, bordering on pain. There was nothing unpleasant or unwelcoming here, nothing she couldn't come to love. It just wasn't home, not yet, and she wasn't used to being alone.

Go looking for someone, for Rumplestiltskin, or stay here and go to bed? Belle stood indecisively in the middle of the room until a huge yawn made up her mind for her. She changed into her crumpled nightgown and spread her wet skirt out in front of the fire. Nervously, she tried snuffing a magic candle. The flame died with a hiss in the iron cup, just like any other candle, so she went around the room, extinguishing all but the two candles nearest the door.

The bed was lovely, springing pleasantly under her as she wriggled beneath the tightly-tucked sheets and adjusted some pillows to get comfortable. There was a featherbed beneath her, but she didn't sink into this one the way she had at the inn. Delightful.

Belle's head swam with sleep almost the moment she closed her eyes. But she couldn't fall asleep—couldn't still her thoughts and save them for tomorrow. So much had happened, and so quickly that she'd yet to catch up with herself. She'd never been homesick before because she'd always known that she'd be going home again.

_'It's forever, dearie.'_

No going home now. Would Papa be all right without her? He'd be so sad, and so angry with her for going. He was always angry when she defied him, but then he'd embrace her and forgive her, and tell her she was just like her mother. Would she ever see him again?

Belle would have cried if she hadn't suddenly remembered the locked door. She went and turned the key, scurrying back to the bed to find the warm spot she'd made in the middle. She could almost hear Papa in her mind, telling her, 'lock that door, my girl, and keep that monster out.'

If she never came home again, he'd never know that Rumplestiltskin could stop being a monster and behave like a man. He'd always fear the worst.

Would Rumplestiltskin come to her bed? He said that he need not, but that didn't mean that he _would_ not. Grateful for something to think about that didn't remind her of home, Belle found herself waiting and listening for him. Even wondering what she might do differently this time. But Rumplestiltskin didn't come, and her eyes grew too heavy to open.

Just as she reached the edge of sleep, Belle did hear Rumplestiltskin on the stairs—the tread of his heeled boots on the landing outside her door and the slight creak of his leathers. He paused for a few moments, perhaps listening, before continuing upwards and out of hearing.

Belle slept a second night alone.


	2. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A castle without servants, and a deadly warning.

The new day brought a worsening of the storm that had already left snow blanketing the world as far as the eye could see. The thick-falling snow was driven by violent winds from a black sky, so even in daylight, it was difficult for Belle to see much of her new home. The sky above, the forest below, plunging away into a valley that became lost in uniform white. Mountain terrain. All she could say for sure was that her room didn't overlook the side of the castle where the carriage stopped last night. Beneath her window, a length of forbidding curtain wall perched over what looked like a sheer drop into the pine forest below. There might have been smaller buildings down there in the bailey, and towers set into the curtain wall, but the weather made it impossible be sure of anything.

Belle chose her warm clothes from yesterday, the things she'd dried in front of the fire. Then she left her room to find out about her new home. Or to find her husband at least. He'd brought her all this way and told her nothing—she wasn't going to be forgotten about! Besides, she had the perfect excuse to find him: she still had his cloak.

Creeping down the stairs made her feel like a naughty little girl, jumping at her own shadow with fear of getting caught. But Rumplestiltskin hadn't forbidden her to leave her rooms. It was reasonable to assume that anyone she met would already know who she was and why she was here. Word got about when a lord brought home a bride. Why else had Rumplestiltskin slowed the carriage as they passed through that little town, if not to let his people see them?

She didn't meet anyone on her journey downstairs. Nor could she hear any voices, or kitchen sounds, or footsteps. Her own movements, her own breath, sounded far too loud because everything else was so unnervingly silent. She began to wish that she could hear the storm after all.

Finding herself back at the hall of black and white marble, Belle stopped to look around. The candles, the torches in their sconces—they still burned. She had the sneaking feeling that no-one had replaced them during the night. This was all exactly as Rumplestiltskin left it.

"Magic," she said, under her breath.

"What else, dearie?"

Belle spun around to find Rumplestiltskin regarding her from the third step, his expression grave. Now she really did feel like a child caught sneaking about in forbidden places! She clutched the cloak in front of her like a shield.

"I wondered where to find you," she said nervously. "Your castle, it's huge! Why is there no-one else about?"

"There's just us." Rumplestiltskin danced lightly down the last few steps. "This way." There was a swagger to his walk, jaunty. It wasn't entirely convincing.

He led her across the hall to a pair of doors which opened smoothly to let them pass. They opened onto a long room, big enough for a ballroom, and furnished in a blaze of gilt and deep reds. Belle tried to look around her without letting Rumplestiltskin get too far ahead. She had the nasty feeling that he could turn a corner and lose her forever in a place this big!

And in a place as big as this...

"Just us?"

"That's right." Rumplestiltskin stopped beside a large fireplace. Big logs put out a roasting heat. Like everything else here, the fire either answered to his whims or stayed ready for his return. This room was already warm, while the unheated hall had chilled overnight. There was some sense to it all, then. Flames made the light and heat here, the same as everywhere else, and without them, things got colder. The world didn't merely adjust itself to meet Rumplestiltskin's every whim.

Belle put her hand on the back of a leather armchair, the arms and seat worn with prolonged use. A round table beside it bore the circular marks of carelessly placed drinks. Ink stains. The rug in front of the fire had a worn spot where the sitter's feet would go. Rumplestiltskin sat here often.

There was only one chair. Likewise, the long, polished oak dining table that dominated the room's centre had a single chair at its head, placing the occupant's back to the door Belle had just entered by.

An assortment of objects, all of them a mystery to Belle, occupied white pedestals around the edges of the room. They seemed a peculiar addition to the gilded opulence—prized trophies, clearly, but Rumplestiltskin didn't collect the kind of objects that Belle thought of as precious. One of them looked like a piece of old rope!

Belle studied all of it until her gaze was drawn to the great spinning wheel at the far corner beneath the last of a row of tall, curtained windows. A flat basket of straw bundles sat beside it.

So, it _was_ true.

Rumplestiltskin followed her gaze and cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

"My castle will see to your needs," he said. "No need for servants here."

That was ridiculous. His magic... Rumplestiltskin couldn't direct it everywhere, _be_ everywhere, in a place as vast as this! And no need for servants, he said?! She pointed at the nearest plinth, blurting the first thing that came into her head.

"But everything's dusty!"

"Dust never harmed anyone," he said, affronted.

"But... look, you put all these things on display like they're important to you, and they're all covered in dust!" Leaving his cloak on the back of the armchair, Belle went to the plinth behind him, feeling Rumplestiltskin turn to follow her with his eyes. This one held a golden curved bow with a delicate silver arrow, displayed on a glass stand that must have been made for the purpose. She ran her finger across the top of the plinth. It came away grey with dust and soot. She held out her hand and showed him.

"Madam," Rumplestiltskin said stiffly, "If you object to dust then, by all means, find a duster." He stalked off to his spinning wheel, drew out a squat, three-legged stool, and sat down hard.

Belle clenched her jaw, following halfway and then stopping. She had to remember to whom she was speaking. But a nasty suspicion was creeping over her about exactly why he'd come looking for such an unlikely bride.

"Is the whole castle like this?"

"Most likely," sniffed Rumplestiltskin.

"And you've no servants."

"None."

"So you went out and got a wife." Belle put her hands on her hips. "And I'm supposed to cook, clean, and care for you, and your castle as well?"

He fixed her with a look like daggers.

"You may do as you please, my lady. You're no servant. You don't have to lift a dainty finger to have your needs met. Every one."

"Except for the dust."

"Except for dust," he agreed. "They do call it the Dark Castle. Dust and cobwebs—I have a reputation to think of." He picked up his spinning. "Just be thankful I cleared the pile of rotting corpses out of the hall before you got here."

Belle stared at him, jaw slack. There wasn't a hint, not a trace of mirth in his expression, yet...

"That was a joke," she said slowly, hoping she wasn't wrong.

Rumplestiltskin wrinkled his nose at her.

"Yes, it was. Just a quip. I'd never waste a good corpse."

She wasn't going to laugh at such a horrid joke—not even so much as a smirk. She just _wasn't_. But her exasperation was rapidly becoming something much lighter—a feeling of the future rushing towards her, all new and unexplored, and with it the suspicion that her husband had more hidden depths than she could explore in a mortal lifetime. A man of mystery and layers.

She had to hide her smile by looking down at her hands—making a show of brushing off the dust.

"Then, what are my duties?"

"Hmm?" Rumplestiltskin was already engrossed in spinning, a few stems of straw in his hand.

"You said that my duties would be light." Belle went to him, slowly, and watched him over the top of the wheel. "What are they?"

"You may..." Rumplestiltskin frowned slightly. Belle noticed how worn the rim of the wheel looked. It was the wear of many, many years of frequent use. He brightened with sudden inspiration. "You can bring me my tea. Bring me straw when I'm spinning at the wheel."

"Just that," Belle said, flatly. That laugh was urgently trying to be born.

Looking hunted, Rumplestiltskin shifted on his stool.

"Clean and dust if it pleases you! How should I know? Do whatever you like!"

In other words, he didn't have the first idea—hadn't given it a moment's thought.

Belle tilted her head.

"How long have you been alone here?" The dust was on everything, but not thickly layered. His home hadn't fallen to ruin—merely succumbed to the indifference of long familiarity.

"A long time." Hushed. Frowning. Then Rumplestiltskin forced lightness into his voice, making his words trite and tart. "A lifetime. You've a whole castle to explore, dearie. What are you standing there for? Away you go." He held up a warning finger. "If it looks magical, don't touch it. If it's a mirror, leave it covered up."

"Right." Noting the strange instructions, Belle nodded. She was hungry. She'd look for the kitchen. And then she'd find a duster, she decided, if only because the subject of dust seemed to open the door to conversation with her husband. Perhaps she could ask him about his strange collection while she dusted it. "Can I go wherever I like?"

"If a door doesn't open for you at a touch, do not try to pass," he said. "Might be dangerous." Belle nodded decisively and turned to go. "And, child?"

Gritting her teeth at his refusal to use her name, Belle faced him again.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes were narrowed—his irises inky black, as though he'd drawn the battering storm inside himself and could unleash it upon her at any moment. He bristled with a rage such as she'd never seen.

"Yes?" The sight of him transformed her intended snap of irritation into a squeak of fright.

Standing, looming, Rumplestiltskin stabbed a black-nailed finger towards her over the wheel and said,

"Never _ever_ try to leave this castle."

Belle didn't run—wouldn't give him the satisfaction of running away, even as terror turned her spine to ice and she had to smother a scream.

She turned her back to Rumplestiltskin and walked— _walked_ —to the nearest door, not breaking into a run until she'd pulled it tightly shut behind her. That put her at the top of a stone staircase, steep and bare and chilly. A servants' passage.

Breathing again, Belle felt sick with her heart hammering too fast in her breast. She hurried down the stairs with one hand against the rough brick wall to steady her. Double doors at the bottom opened onto a crossroads of passages and, straight ahead, identical ones led to the castle's kitchen.

With three sets of doors safely between herself and Rumplestiltskin, Belle put her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tight.

His _eyes_. Not his words, those were no more or less than she expected when she made her deal with the Dark One, but his _eyes_. Gloss-black with magic, narrowed with a hateful loathing of the world and everything in it, so overpowering that she could _feel_ it!

Was that really her husband?

The name, the title: Dark One. It made sense now. Darkness was in him— not just the petty spite he'd shown her father, but something truly _evil_. And now she'd seen him let it out—just a glimpse.

A warning, then.

Belle leaned against the doorjamb, waiting until she had her breath back before opening her eyes.

How _dare_ he?! She'd done nothing wrong—shown herself willing to fulfil their bargain in every way. Did he think her foolish enough to assume their deal ended when he had her virginity? Was it just a _transaction_ to him, and she an acquisition to go on one of his pedestals and gather dust now he'd made use of her?

Now she was upsetting herself—accusing him under the cloak of trying to understand him. But did she even want to understand him if treated her like that? The size of this castle—she could probably keep her bargain, stay here and be his wife, without ever seeing Rumplestiltskin again.

Was that what he meant to do? Frighten her away so she'd leave him alone?

Hating to feel so angry, Belle forced herself to look around. To concentrate. This room had lit up to welcome her, like all the others, but that was where the welcome stopped.

Someone had used this kitchen, long ago. Old soot stains, grease, and clutter told a story of a busy room, like the kitchen at home; of cook and apprentices and scullions feeding the castle above, one day's work barely ending before the next began.

Long ago. A black cauldron, lying on its side at Belle's feet, was full of cobwebs. They, in turn, were crumbling and heavy with dust. Even the spiders had abandoned it.

'A lifetime,' Rumplestiltskin said. She believed him.

It would take her half a lifetime just to explore the castle. Longer to learn her way around. By the time Belle had wandered long enough to calm her fear, she'd discovered that this building was a long, rectangular palace at the heart of a sprawling fortress. Only below ground, below stairs, was she able to make her way from one end of the building to another without encountering a layout that defied logic. Magic shaped Rumplestiltskin's living quarters upstairs to his liking, but he hadn't bothered to change anything down here.

Something _terrible_ must have happened here, once. Belle hadn't been sure in the kitchen—it might just have been left in a mess. Further into the cellars, it looked as though an ogre had come crashing through. Fallen masonry, smashed doors, broken pots, and furniture turned into firewood. Fire had left its mark too, blackening several stretches of the walls.

Occasionally, a door refused to open for her. Down here, the doors opened in the usual way with a latch or a turnkey instead of at her approach. Those that wouldn't open had no lock; they just didn't move at all. Upstairs, every door Belle approached swung open smoothly and closed gently behind her. It made her imagine Rumplestiltskin in the shadows, poised to impress her with his trickery. But she checked, curious: tiptoed back to the top of the kitchen stairs and put her eye to the keyhole. Rumplestiltskin spent the whole morning at his spinning wheel, filling a basket with spool after spool of gold.

Either the castle watched her, or Rumplestiltskin could watch her without appearing to do so. Belle was uneasy with either possibility.

It took her most of the day to realise that she hadn't seen a mirror anywhere on her travels. She'd tried any number of rooms on the lower floors, most shuttered and forgotten, but it was only when she caught her reflection in a silver teapot, back in the kitchen, that she realised. Not one mirror. Not even in her room, which had everything else she could possibly want.

The glimpse in the teapot showed Belle that her hair was a disgrace—lank, escaping in careless wisps from the braid she'd tied all the way back at the inn. Her dress had smears of dust and soot, and she'd blackened her hands trying to see if she could light the kitchen fire. When two antique birds' nests fell into the grate, she thought better of it.

Tea, he said. Bring him tea. Well, she'd found the silverware and a cloth to buff away the tarnish. She'd found an indoor water pump that didn't work, set over a deep stone basin with a crack in the bottom. She'd even found what must be the larder—a square room filled with shelves at the back of the kitchen. Whatever violence had visited this place had emptied the food stores, smashed the bowls and jugs, and left the larder for the mice.

Having done her best with the silver, Belle reluctantly untied her hair and tried to comb it through with her fingers. Satisfied that her curving reflection looked slightly less slovenly, she hefted the tray of tea things and carried them upstairs.

Apprehension settled on her shoulders with every step. Rumplestiltskin had frightened her so badly that she'd been glad to go away and spend the day exploring. But as evening fell, thirst and hunger wrestled her fear and wounded pride into submission. If he didn't want her leaving, he probably didn't expect her to starve in silence, either.

Besides, she wanted some company. His seemed better than none at all by now.

Rumplestiltskin was still at his wheel, raised on a dais opposite the kitchen doorway. Had he been there all day? No, Belle decided, hesitating on her way into the room and taking a better look at him. He'd changed his outfit since she peeked earlier.

Head held high, shoulders back, Belle pushed into the room and headed for the empty table in the middle.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," said Rumplestiltskin, mildly.

Belle hoped he didn't notice how the crockery rattled as she eased the tray onto the table.

"You sent me away," she pointed out, primly. "And frightened me half to death. You're lucky I came back at all." It wasn't as if she could leave if she wanted to. The snow was hip-deep out there and still falling.

"So I did." Rumplestiltskin left his straw and came to her side. Belle kept her attention on the tray—on the table that had space for two dozen guests, but only one chair. She felt him watching her with a stare so intense that her skin registered it. "How do you like my castle?"

"It's enormous." She tried to sound friendly. "So many rooms, I'll never learn my way around."

Awkward silence, then Rumplestiltskin pointed to the tray.

"You brought me tea."

"I was going to." Belle lifted the lid of the pot and tilted it to show him. Empty. Milk jug, sugar bowl, bread plates—all empty. "There's nothing in your larder, and your kitchen looks more like a pigsty."

Rumplestiltskin's pointing finger curled back into his palm. He withdrew his hand slowly. "Ah."

"And you don't have any tea leaves that I could find."

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "And the battle with the dust?"

Belle had to fight a smile. He sounded so timid.

"I lost." She took a deep breath and faced him, chin up. "But I live to fight another day."

Rumplestiltskin had abandoned his hard leather coat and scaly mantle for a high-collared, gold brocade waistcoat over a silk shirt, earthy red with full sleeves that ended in a frill at his wrists. His eyes were no longer that terrible black. The moment Belle caught them, they became downcast.

He circled his flattened palm over the tray a few times—the gesture impatient, but with himself, not with Belle. She'd brought everything but the food and drink—the whole tea set. Bread plates and everything! Rumplestiltskin's magic added all that was missing. The spout gave off a wisp of steam, the sugar bowl overflowed with brown and white crystals, and a platter of sliced and buttered bread made Belle's mouth water.

"It's done," he murmured, before striding away down the length of the table. For a heartbeat, Belle thought he was leaving. Instead, Rumplestiltskin eased into his place at the head of the table, sat back, and steepled his hands while he watched her pour a cup. The scrutiny made her flustered. Clumsy. This time there was no hoping that he missed the rattle of the cup in the saucer as she carried it to him and set it down with trembling hands. At least she didn't drop anything! "You've never served anyone," he observed, mildly.

"No. No, I haven't."

"No call for that in the Dukeling's castle, I suppose.

"Probably not." What was he saying? Not sure whether to be offended, annoyed, or glad to learn that her husband had some conversation after all, Belle returned for the sugar dish and milk jug. If he wanted better service, he should have taken on a servant, not a wife!

"But no lying down for a hideous beast, either."

Belle missed a step, shocked. She finished the trip back to his side quickly and plunked the crockery down in front of him.

"That's a matter of opinion." Hideous, no. Beast... That remained to be seen, didn't it? She hardly held a good opinion of Gaston, however handsome he was.

"Join me?" Her mind still on the disturbing image of lying down with Gaston, Belle gaped a moment at Rumplestiltskin's soft, hopeful offer. "There's more tea in the pot, no?"

The pot. Yes.

Did Rumplestiltskin _have_ to be so confusing?!

Join him. At the enormous table where he occupied the only chair.

Right.

Belle fetched herself a cup, aware again of the way he watched her when he thought she couldn't see. When she glanced his way, Rumplestiltskin had his head cocked to one side, his expression one of unabashed fascination.

To Belle's mortification, she blushed. To cover the embarrassment, she moved quickly—put her cup and saucer in the place to Rumplestiltskin's left and, with great effort, dragged the big, heavy armchair over from the fireplace, so she had somewhere to sit down.

Rumplestiltskin's watchful interest didn't waver. He could have conjured her a chair—a room full of chairs—if she'd been willing to ask. A gentleman would have fetched the chair for her, or offered his own. Had he been so long without mortal company—without any company—that he'd forgotten how to share a room with someone?

The seat of the armchair was much too low for the table. Belle seated herself as delicately as possible on the armrest then drew her cup and saucer towards her, trying to look as though nothing unusual had happened.

Rumplestiltskin tried to smile. His mouth made the shape, creases forming where they should to delineate a smile, but the expression was empty. Pursing his lips, he stared down at his tea and began to add sugar with the dainty silver tongs: three lumps, this time, and no milk. Belle took none either. She spotted her reflection again when the surface of the dark liquid stilled enough to be glassy.

"Why do you have no mirrors?" She had to say _something_.

"There are mirrors," said Rumplestiltskin evenly. "You will leave them covered." That was no answer, but Belle was too wary to argue the point.

"All right," she said, her brief attempt at boldness already wearing thin. It seemed lost on Rumplestiltskin, her behaviour baffling him as much as his mercurial moods confused her.

They drank their tea. Belle began to think longingly of the bread and butter but didn't want to give this up—this still point in which she could sit beside the man she'd married and do something reassuringly ordinary.

Her stomach gurgled. Rumplestiltskin snapped his fingers and made the plate of bread appear next to her left hand.

"Thank you," Belle mumbled, red-faced. She took a slice and pushed the plate to Rumplestiltskin, who refused it, palm raised.

"You've not eaten all day," he accused when Belle was too hungry to be completely ladylike. She bit off a great mouthful then chewed self-consciously, unable to reply until she swallowed.

"There was nothing in the kitchen," she reminded him.

Face scrunched in his struggle to comprehend, Rumplestiltskin waved his hands about.

"My castle is magic," he argued, agitated. Almost bouncing on his seat. "Did you think I'd have you starve?"

Finally swallowing the bread, Belle took her turn at struggling to understand.

"I don't know any magic."

"Magic castle," repeated Rumplestiltskin, slowly this time, and in the tone of one beginning to suspect he'd wed a lackwit. "Tell it what you want, girl! Bread! Tea! Jewels!"

"Talk to your castle?" Understanding dawned but brought weak dismay along with it. "Like making wishes?"

" _Not_ like wishes," Rumplestiltskin said, sharply. "I don't grant wishes. I'm the Dark One, not a..." He stopped and took a breath. "I make _deals_. Our deal makes this your home and you its mistress. My castle serves you as it serves me." His busy hands illustrated the whole statement, dancing and pointing until he fell silent and looked at her—looked for a sign of understanding.

"Because I'm your wife," Belle clarified, doubtfully.

He made a noise in his throat, half agreement, half irritation, and took his cup in both hands for a slow, soothing sip of tea.

Belle considered his words while she finished a piece of bread and butter in bites more polite than her first. The food was fresh, the tea fragrant and hot, and all done by magic. The castle knew when to open the doors for her and when to light the candles. Did it know her desires as well? Or did Rumplestiltskin know her thoughts?

No-one knew the extent of his powers. Legend hinted at violence beyond measure; said that the Dark One knew the future and could weigh the truth in someone's heart. That he could take your _actual_ heart and crush it in his hand, and not only if you were fool enough to anger him. Because he felt like it.

"Are you well?"

"What?" He'd startled Belle out of a daze of speculation. It took her a moment to understand the question. "Yes, thank you. Quite well," she said, puzzled. Did he feel guilty for not explaining about the food? "I'm sure a few hours without a bite to eat won't do me any harm."

Rumplestiltskin had finished his tea. He ran his greenish fingertip around and around the rim of the cup, watching himself with studied concentration.

"You are... quite unhurt?" He shifted in his seat, pulling his hands back towards him. In his lap, they began their compulsive, twisting dance anew.

"I don't..." But even as Belle made to say that she didn't understand, she suddenly did. His bashful, lowered lashes—the discomfort that he was trying to pass off as worldly ease. "Yes," she said kindly. "Yes, of course."

He'd been so gentle, so careful of her. How could he doubt it?

Rumplestiltskin nodded, one hand grabbing the other and wringing it into stillness.

"That's good. Good." At once, he was on his feet and striding away from her. Back to his spinning, she assumed, but he didn't take his place on the stool. He stood with his back to Belle and his hand on the great wheel. "Have you everything that you need, my lady?"

It was a clear dismissal. Crestfallen, Belle got to her feet. She'd begun to think, for a moment when Rumplestiltskin spoke so tenderly, that she might ask him... that he might tell her what she'd done wrong when they consummated their marriage. She was a disappointment to him—that much was clear. There was no reason to leave things this way.

Of course, she could come out and ask her question now, bold as brass. But if she'd failed in some way, and if he mocked her for it and made her cry again, she feared she might never forgive him. She had to find her feet before she could find more courage.

"Yes. Thank you." Belle meant to take some bread and go, but something held her there. The set of his shoulders, or the sound of his voice, or her own need to understand—something made it impossible to walk away without another word. One more try. "Even you must sleep," she quavered. "Sometimes."

He gripped his wheel, nodding without looking at her.

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Good night, then," she said, though she had no idea of the time. She'd spent most of her day in windowless rooms, and this one had tapestry curtains thick enough to block all daylight from the tall, narrow windows.

"Good night, my lady," Rumplestiltskin said, so softly she hardly heard him.

Defeated, Belle went to see if she could remember how to find her rooms.


	3. Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A welcome and a confrontation.

Her dreams were of home and of war. Belle woke to her third morning as a bride tangled in her bedclothes, soaked with nightmare perspiration, and so homesick that she wanted to curl into a ball and try to crush the ache inside her.

Surrounded by Rumplestiltskin's lavish furnishings, she missed the simpler, humbler things she'd had at home: the bed that creaked, the stone walls and floor that would suck the warmth right out of you if not for the comfortable old hangings and rugs. She missed everything ordinary and everyday—everything she'd longed to escape, back before the war when she had the luxury of boredom. Before Mama died. That seemed like another lifetime.

Belle took a deep breath.

This was the price, she told herself, sternly. Not going to bed with Rumplestiltskin, or coming to live with him, or even being unsure of her future from moment to moment. Her pain, this homesickness, was her sacrifice.

She just had to be brave enough to face it.

The storm had broken during the night. A bright blue sky lifted her spirits the moment she threw open the curtains. Everything as far as the eye could see was whitened by snow—still and perfect. As she'd thought, Rumplestiltskin's castle occupied a mountain peak, the terrain below the castle dominated by pine trees. Stark peaks in the distance went far above any treeline, but the Dark Castle sat where the mountain began to give way to the valley—to winding roads and far-off rivers. She'd been right about the castle itself, too. This central building bore little resemblance to the rest—a modern, hospitable palace amidst forbidding fortifications of granite. At intervals around the outer ring were slender turrets, so pretty as to seem decorative rather than functional. From the top of each, a red pennant flew against the cloudless sky.

Cheered by the sight, by the pristine snow and gorgeous light, Belle went to bathe and see what could be done with her hair.

The copper bathtub filled at her touch while she was still trying to decide how you asked a magic castle for some hot water. Belle backed away and watched the water rise up smoothly from nowhere. Had it heard her thinking?

She hesitated to undress, hugging herself, unable to shake the feeling that Rumplestiltskin must be watching her or, even stranger, that his castle must watch her if it was to answer her every whim. Doors and tea trays were one thing, but taking off her nightdress while being watched was quite another!

Belle rolled her eyes at herself. Rumplestiltskin turned his back when she undressed at the inn—he'd tried none of his mischief then. Even when it came to the business in hand, he'd put out the light, and hadn't tried to uncover any more of her skin than necessary to get the deed done. He'd had two more nights since then to come and look at her if he wanted to, so he'd hardly need to watch her in secret. The terrible Dark One would hardly be watching her just in case she suddenly decided to have a _bath_. And what could her nakedness matter to a castle, magic or not?

Still, part of her was relieved when, dropping her nightdress to the floor, she didn't hear anything giggle.

The water felt wonderful. The large bar of white soap from the washstand smelled of lemon and felt creamy on her skin. After a little while, Belle learned how to enjoy the treat of sitting in hot water up to her chest, and found that she could stretch out, almost buoyant, hair floating around her shoulders while she admired the painted panels between the awkwardly-angled oak ceiling beams. Someone had recreated the night sky up there, magical in gold leaf and azure. She could even pick out the constellations.

Belle got out when the water began to cool, swathed herself in towels, and set to work combing through her hair. It took ages to pull out all the tangles, which brought the homesickness back. Lotte did her hair, at home, skilled with lotions and curling irons. The best Belle could manage was a comb, and to leave her wet hair loose to dry.

Refreshed, wearing a clean blue dress and her only pair of leather shoes, Belle headed for the kitchen. Cleaning up that mess ought to keep her too busy to think about what she'd left behind.

When she opened the kitchen door, Belle stopped and stared in amazement. There'd been a transformation every bit as dramatic as the weather outside. The kitchen lit up when Belle entered—three wheel-shaped chandeliers hung above, each with twelve fat candles. The debris was gone, the surfaces gleamed, the pump worked, and the larder shelves groaned under the weight of more food than two people could eat in a month.

After touring the room, Belle stopped and warmed her hands by the lovely fire, her thoughts scrambling for solid ground in this new world of magic. 'It's done,' Rumplestiltskin had said. He hadn't only meant a pot of tea and some buttered bread! He'd addressed her every complaint, setting the kitchen to rights with a wave of his hand. Everything gleamed like new.

For Belle. He'd done this for her, without asking her for anything in return. Yet he said it himself—the Dark One didn't grant wishes, he made deals. So which was this? Did the obliging gesture come with a price, like saving her town from the ogres, or was it like when he'd given her the ring? A gift?

She owed him thanks at least, but when Belle went upstairs to look, he wasn't at his spinning wheel. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

~~~

Belle saw no sign of Rumplestiltskin until mid-morning. It took nearly that long to boil the huge copper kettle on the fire. She ate bread and butter while she waited, cutting two more slices and leaving them on a plate to bring to Rumplestiltskin. It was not, she had to admit, a dainty meal. Slicing bread didn't look difficult, but Belle's slices looked like mason's wedges—too thick to bite at one end and too thin to take the butter knife at the other. Rumplestiltskin could magic away decades of dust, but there was no helping the fact that he'd married a woman who was used to being served her meals.

When she finished filling the tray and carried it up the stairs, Rumplestiltskin was at his wheel again. His hands were busy with one of the neatly cut bundles of straw, which he was picking apart and sorting into a broad, flat basket across his knees. It made the room smell of summer meadows and sunshine. He looked up as she entered, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile.

"Good morning," Belle said brightly, unable to contain her good cheer. Rumplestiltskin might be a sombre and frightening figure whose eyes sometimes filled with the inky blackness of the darkest magic, but she was pleased to see him all the same. She was more herself today—well-rested, clean, and optimistic. Rumplestiltskin hadn't met her yet. Not properly. "How is my husband today?"

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth but failed to answer, his face falling into a weak, nervous smile. Belle smiled helplessly, remembering Aya's anxious admonition about attracting the attention of the Spinner with incautious words. She almost laughed. Startled by a small kindness, Rumplestiltskin behaved more like a shy little boy than a dreadful demon.

She took her time pouring out two cups of tea, deciding to try a lump of sugar this time. She took Rumplestiltskin's cup and plate to his place at the head of the table, then kept herself unnecessarily busy with the tray while he moved past her to take his chair.

"You've no need to serve me," said Rumplestiltskin, sounding pained. He fingered the bread uncertainly.

Belle took up her perch on the arm of the stolen fireside chair. He hadn't moved it back there.

"You said you liked to have tea brought. Don't you eat?"

"I do." Breaking off a piece of bread, Rumplestiltskin turned it this way and that between his fingertips before taking a small, cautious bite.

"I know it's only bread and butter," Belle said, leaning slightly towards him as she picked up her teacup. "But I'll learn. You'll see."

His non-committal grunt only encouraged her helpless smile. He wasn't comfortable keeping company with anyone, let alone someone who chatted to him. The question was, had he forgotten how to be around someone, or had he never known to begin with?

Taking pity, Belle kept quiet while they ate and drank. Rumplestiltskin showed willing by taking a few bites of bread. He drank the tea but looked relieved when Belle finished eating, so he could politely return to his wheel.

Belle quite enjoyed seeing him discomfited for a change. He could make her jump by appearing at her shoulder, a venomous whisper in her ear. But she could make him squirm by being pleasant and cheerful. That was a useful thing to know.

Rumplestiltskin didn't dismiss her this time. Belle watched from her place at the table—watched him spin straw into gold. It was utterly impossible, but that was magic for you. Magic didn't have to make sense unless you knew the secrets, but she did wonder about Rumplestiltskin's choice of pastime. He spent hours at it. Why straw? And why gold? If the mood took him, he must be able to transform pebbles into emeralds or cobwebs into silk. Nevermind magic—he was a master spinner. If this was only a way to occupy his hands, why didn't he work wool and save himself the effort of magic?

He seemed to forget about Belle once he became absorbed in his work. She lowered herself into the deep leather seat of the armchair, content to sit and watch him. While his hands were busy with the wheel, his expression was intent, sober, and distant. The changing moods that so animated him, unpredictable as clouds skipping across a breezy sky, vanished completely as he spun. Concentration suited him. Stillness did.

After a long while, Belle stirred herself to gather the tea things back onto the tray. The movement didn't prompt Rumplestiltskin to send her away, so she wandered closer to watch him work. Her nearness disturbed him though, making him tense and hesitant, half-glancing her way, so Belle passed him and went to the window behind the wheel. With difficulty, she worked her way behind the heavy curtain.

The whole castle was shut up this way, except for Belle's own rooms. A craftsman usually made the most of the daylight, in her experience, but Rumplestiltskin kept his home shrouded and shuttered. It kept the place warm, no doubt, but Belle already missed the light.

Behind the curtain was cold and slightly damp, condensation edging each pane of glass in the lower window. More than one winter's debris littered the windowsill—long-dead bluebottles, half a skeleton leaf, and a grey-black stain made of damp and dust.

Turning her face up to the sunlight, Belle stayed where she was until the chill began to bite—until she wanted the warmth of the fire more than the day outside.

Just as she peeked out, trying not to startle Rumplestiltskin, he leapt to his feet. Despite herself, Belle shrank back with a gasp. But she quickly saw that he hadn't even noticed her; head cocked, he seemed to be listening to something Belle couldn't hear.

She couldn't pretend the abrupt change of mood didn't scare her. His expression was sharp, hard, and unforgiving. But almost as soon as she tasted fear, she understood that Rumplestiltskin's mood wasn't directed at her at all. He walked quickly to the far end of the room and out into the hall, where the heels of his boots rang on the marble with every step.

More echoes reached Belle's ears when Rumplestiltskin opened the outer doors. She hurried after him and stood beside the table in the centre of the hall, stopping in time to see her husband stride out into the bright day. The straight path between the castle and the gate was still free of snow. Either side of Rumplestiltskin, the snowdrifts over his garden were as high as his head.

Shivering, hugging her arms against the icy breeze, Belle felt no urge to follow him out into the daylight. Never mind his warning about not leaving his castle—she'd never felt such biting cold in her life!

The far end of the path led under the gate arch where she'd arrived that night. For all that the walls were a fortress, the gates were not. Rumplestiltskin slid a long bolt at the height of his chest that could just as easily be worked by someone on the outside.

He didn't fear an army, a siege. He was so powerful that he didn't fear anything. But Belle couldn't imagine her dour husband welcoming visitors with open arms. They'd get in all right—they could come right to Rumplestiltskin's door. But how many ever left again? She hugged herself tighter.

Rumplestiltskin went out to where they'd left the carriage. No sign of it now. Stooping, he spent a while gathering things from the ground. Baskets, Belle saw when he began the return journey, the gates clanging shut behind him in a firework-shower of snow and shattered icicles. Eight baskets of all shapes and sizes, some hanging from his arms and the rest clutched to his chest.

His expression hadn't changed, still sour and forbidding, eyes narrowed as if a few baskets troubled his mind. Belle couldn't help the way her heart quickened in fright when, as before, the castle doors slammed shut with resounding finality behind their master. But they weren't locked, she noticed. All she'd need to do was lift the latch, slide the bolt on the gates…

She began to shiver in earnest. Noticing her at last, Rumplestiltskin pursed his lips then impatiently snapped his fingers, instantly warming the room.

Belle smiled her gratitude but he'd already gone back to studying the baskets with hard, suspicious eyes.

"Is something the matter? It looks like someone's left you a present." Perhaps people left offerings to appease him? If you lived anywhere near this place, keeping the Dark One happy would seem like a very good idea! Even at home, local people sometimes brought gifts to the castle according to what they could spare—some apples, some peas, some corn.

"I think not." Rumplestiltskin tugged away the linen cloth covering one of the larger baskets. He relaxed, but only a little. "Gifts for you, I believe," he said, tautly.

"I don't understand." Belle followed his lead and helped him uncover the rest. Nestled in bundled straw or wrapped in sackcloth were glazed pots, glass bottles, rolled cloths tied with string, and decorations woven from straw. There were spools of coloured thread, patterned ribbons, creamy lace, and fruits, loaves, pastries... All kinds of things, small things, no two alike. "For me?"

"It seems the people of the town welcome you, mistress," Rumplestiltskin purred, suddenly too near—almost touching her, his arm just a whisper away from hers. He picked up a tiny doll made of bundled, twisted straw and made it dance for her, as though to amuse a child.

"Oh..." Belle shook her head, lifting and replacing a few of the things. The suddenly looked more precious than jewels. "Oh." With tears in her eyes, she looked up at Rumplestiltskin's uneasy smile.

"Something from every household, if I'm any judge. To welcome my bride." He sounded apologetic, though she couldn't think why.

"They came all this way in the snow!" Belle caught at his arm, not realising that she'd done so until Rumplestiltskin stared in naked surprise at her grasping hand. "But that's miles! And these things are..." She gestured helplessly to the baskets, still pulling on Rumplestiltskin's unresisting arm. The produce of a whole town with something from even the poorest—the straw dolls and fragile cornucopias stuffed with fresh mistletoe and holly. "So kind," she finished, voice breaking into a whisper.

"So it seems." Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat, unable to meet her eyes. "The kindness to you will not be forgotten," he said, very quietly. "You have my word."

"Thank you." Belle stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek quickly before she could think better of it. Rumplestiltskin backed away, nodding awkwardly and trying to be polite about twisting his arm from her grasp. He looked as though she'd bitten him, not pecked him on the cheek!

Her husband retreated in haste to his spinning wheel, and Belle set about exploring her baskets of treasure, her heart filled with hope.

~~~

The kitchen was as good a place as any to start making this her home.

Arranging some of the gifts on a dresser shelf, Belle finally felt that she'd made a start on her new life at the Dark Castle.

She'd brought so little from home—hardly any of her clothes, just a handful of her books—that these things filled a hollow place in her heart. The emptiness in her wasn't for want of her possessions, but because so little here was familiar or friendly. That felt like the opposite of a home, a constant reminder of homesickness. A small treasure where she could see it—that reminded her at a glance that someone welcomed her warmly, even if she couldn't say the same of Rumplestiltskin.

Some of the baskets contained food—preserves; a pat of butter; a small, waxed cheese; a round loaf; and four pastries that Belle decided would be their supper. If she took them upstairs with a tea tray, she and Rumplestiltskin would at least have something to talk about while they ate. Though he might not want to.

Why was he so unsettled by these gifts? He didn't begrudge her the kindness; he'd made that plain enough. He'd even promised his goodwill towards the givers. But, then, she'd already seen how gestures of warmth surprised Rumplestiltskin. Even her thoughtless courtesies startled him. The look on his face when she kissed his cheek! Even silently keeping him company bewildered him. Did he expect her to sulk in her room, lock the door and refuse to come out for the rest of her days? That would be breaking their deal, not to mention against her nature.

If he'd broken the deal, cheated her, that would be different. If he'd been cruel instead of careful or shown no feeling when his teasing made her cry...

He hadn't liked seeing her cry. It made her feel strange, a clenching flutter beneath her ribs, to remember that anxious, pleading look on his face.

To Belle's surprise, Rumplestiltskin came down while she was loading the tea tray. He hesitated just inside the kitchen doors, hands folded behind his back, and looked around. His gaze lingered longest on the new things, the gifts that Belle had put on display. He nodded to himself, approving, affecting nonchalance that didn't convince Belle for one moment.

"Shall we eat here?" she asked before he could turn on his heel and leave again. She lifted the pastries, which she'd laid out on a painted blue and white plate. "It's lovely and warm near the fire."

Rumplestiltskin nodded, wary, and joined her at the kitchen table with their backs to the fireplace. He left one empty chair between them, perhaps worried that Belle might try to kiss him again if he wasn't careful.

Belle hid her smile and offered him the first choice of the pastries. He took one between thumb and forefinger, cautious, staring at it as if he didn't know what he should do with it. Belle pushed a plate towards him and wasn't surprised when he put the pastry on it, untouched.

She tried her own choice—a curly, sweet and flaky confection of nuts and honey. It showered buttery crumbs into her lap and made her mouth water in welcome.

"The gifts are for you too, you know," she said when Rumplestiltskin hadn't moved to take a bite as Belle finished her first pastry. "Jams, oils, pickled eggs, honey..."

"They are for you," he answered, but he did try a bite. He nodded and smiled so unconvincingly that Belle decided he had no interest in food whatsoever. But he was trying to be sociable, in his diffident and stilted way, and she welcomed the company even if he was difficult to talk to. She'd just have to find something that he did enjoy.

"I was just making tea," she remembered. He liked tea well enough to sit with her a while, didn't he? "Thank you for making the kitchen so lovely."

There'd been a pouch of dried chamomile flowers among the baskets. Belle tipped some into the teapot and fetched the kettle from the fire. It was a struggle to lift it high enough to pour; Belle wished that she'd managed it before Rumplestiltskin came down. He watched her uncertainly, on the verge of springing to his feet and complicating things by trying to help.

"You'll injure yourself, let me," he said in a persuasive, anxious wheedle. But Belle shook her head and, with an effort, finished what she was doing. Everything in the kitchen was far too big for a household of two people, so she'd have to start getting used to it! She blew a wisp of hair out of her face, returning the kettle to its fireside hook. When she looked around, Rumplestiltskin was still watching with that pained expression. "You're not a kitchen maid," he pressed on, not taking his eyes from her as she went back to her chair. "You're my wife."

That last sounded like an apology.

"I like being in the kitchen," Belle told him. And she did—it was cosy with the roaring fire that never needed tending. Compared to the gloom in the rest of the castle, this room was cheerful, and it could be her place since Rumplestiltskin had no interest in it. Belle wasn't too proud to heft pots and pans if it gave her a sense of purpose and place. But maybe her husband was too proud to let her. She remembered Gaston's mother, the Duchess, who sneered at the notion of her future daughter-in-law lifting so much as a book. "Should your wife be too proud to fetch and carry?"

"Many would be." Rumplestiltskin fidgeted on the hard wooden seat. "I hadn't thought how you would occupy yourself," he confessed, the words rushed as if to get them over with.

Or about feeding her, or how she was supposed to look respectable without a mirror.

Suddenly, Belle saw the funny side of it all.

"That's because you're a man," she teased in a confidential whisper, leaning across the chair he'd left as a barrier between them. "Men never think how a woman is supposed to occupy herself when he isn't looking. Well, I've never had a kitchen that someone wasn't trying to shoo me out of because I was in the way. It's cosy. There's plenty to do if I want to keep it looking nice. I like it."

"A... a smaller kettle then?" He gestured weakly.

Belle couldn't help but glance over her shoulder at the fireplace. Yes, now the kettle was smaller, as was the iron cooking pot. They hung on the great iron fittings like an afterthought. Rumplestiltskin avoided her amused glance but seemed heartened when Belle poured him a cup of the chamomile tea. He took it from her with a thin smile of thanks, placing it in front of him with exaggerated care.

"So," Belle said, pushing the chair between them out of the way so that she could turn her own to face him. "You didn't want a wife who'd cook and carry for you, or to dust your magical things, or to manage your servants. You didn't want my dowry because you sit and make gold all day long." And he didn't want her for his bed. "What _did_ you mean to do with me?"

"Why," he said, half-hidden behind his teacup, "your task is to be lovely. And here. Nothing more." He sipped the scalding brew, then held the cup between his palms, rolling it from side to side without disturbing the surface of the tea. "There are far worse bargains, my dear."

Belle knew that well enough. She'd seen women, girls, married off—some to strangers, some for love. In some of them, she'd seen love blossom and the joy of children—rich contentment as they made a family. Others had their spirit crushed by marriage, as though part of them withered and died in the face of their duty. Belle's own father gave her a few more years—would have given her more still, and her own choice of a husband, if the war hadn't changed everything. And as things turned out... Well, was Rumplestiltskin really any worse a prospect than Gaston?

Gaston would have snatched the kettle from her and said something about women being feeble. Rumplestiltskin compromised instead. That was good, wasn't it?

They drank their tea in a silence less strained than the ones before it. Before Belle reached the bottom of her cup, Rumplestiltskin timidly proffered his so that she could pour him some more. The chamomile was delicious—a taste of summer meadows in the middle of a bitter winter.

"Sir," Belle said, not sure they were on first-name terms given that he refused to use her name at all. She wanted to ask while he seemed more at ease in her company; while she dared. "May I ask you—" But her sudden blush made her feel absurd, childish. "Never mind," she mumbled, her poise and her courage deserting her.

"Ask, child." Rumplestiltskin spread his hands like wings, thumbs touching, then steepled them in front of him and kept his eyes lowered.

"All right." They would have to do something about 'child', Belle thought. 'My dear' had been a slight improvement. "What did I do to displease you? On our wedding night?" It was a reasonable question, one she needed the answer to if she was to honestly keep her bargain with him, but Belle's thoughts ran away with her tongue once she'd dared to ask it. All her little worries tried to come out at once, tumbling one over the other in an avalanche of fumbling blushes. "I've tried to think, but I don't... I mean, I've never been married before. I don't know what I did wrong. Please tell me?" Mercifully, her tongue fell still. Burning with embarrassment, more at the flood of careless words than the topic in hand, Belle bit her lip to make sure she stopped talking.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head.

"You did nothing to displease me." His voice was strained, his fingertips pressing so tightly together that his hands quivered. "You did nothing wrong."

"Oh." She'd expected any answer but that. She needed information, facts, but this only told her that she'd asked the wrong question. "I'm sorry, I thought... Because you left that night and didn't visit me again, I thought..."

"I would spare you this," snapped Rumplestiltskin, his chair grinding back across the flagstones and toppling over as he stood, sharply. "That is all. To bed _this_ —" he swept his hands up and down, indicating his own body with sarcastic showmanship, "—is _not_ among your duties."

Belle gasped. His tone stung—was meant to. So close to mockery, to cruelty, but even as she readied herself to take offence, she knew that Rumplestiltskin directed the bitter sarcasm mostly at himself. That he meant exactly what he said, and gestured to his own, lean body with utter contempt.

He wasn't disappointed with his prize. He was sparing her—and sparing himself her scorn.

Tears welled up and blinded Belle for a moment. They were for his sake, for her own—a sudden tender pity for this man she barely knew, tempered by unfamiliar peevishness at his tone.

Lip curling, Rumplestiltskin spun on his heel and made for the door.

"Rumplestiltskin!" She almost knocked over her own chair, jumping up to go after him; scurried to put herself in his path before he reached the door. "I am your _wife_. I take you as you are, as you must take me. I promised that. I _meant_ that." He froze in place rather than try to push past her, rather than shove her out of his way, his expression hunted. Bitter like the cold, and angry. He wasn't used to being challenged, nor tolerating obstructions.

After a moment—an endless moment during which Belle's terrified heart tried to pound its way out of her chest—Rumplestiltskin reached out and took her by the chin. He held her gently enough, but quite still, studying her eyes with the intensity of a hawk scanning the ground for mice.

"They weep for you in the town," he crooned, bringing his face nearer to hers. His eyes narrowed. "The poor wee thing they saw in my carriage as we passed. My lovely bride. They send you gifts to console you. They pity you for having this beast be so cruel to you in your bed, dearie."

Belle blinked.

"How would they know?" The hot words were muffled by his firm hold on her chin. "They weren't there, were they?"

Rumplestiltskin blinked too and then, somehow, they were both laughing, with Belle unsure which of them started it. His mad, childish giggle wove around her relieved and broken snorts of laughter. He let her go, shaking his head and self-consciously scratching the back of his neck.

That stubborn spat deserved to be laughed at, but Belle's heart ached for the rest of it; that she'd been so worried about doing something wrong while he worried that she wouldn't... that she couldn't... That he _disgusted her_ when she'd promised that he didn't. It was too horrible.

"You weren't beastly when you came to bed," she said, once the giggles subsided and left them standing sheepishly together, out of breath and unsure. "You were gentle and kind and gave me an opportunity to refuse you. I don't think many brides are as lucky as yours, Rumplestiltskin." She hardly recognised her voice, her tenderness. Like pity, but not that—something older and surer than that. Something kinder. "You don't disgust me. But please, stop trying to frighten me."

Rumplestiltskin turned his face away, flinching, his breathing growing harsh while she spoke. Belle caught him by the hand and squeezed. After a moment, looking down at their joined hands, his expression stricken, Rumplestiltskin returned the gentle pressure.

Because she'd dared as much already, and because words didn't feel like enough, Belle kissed him on the cheek again—a slow press of her lips against his strange skin instead of the hasty peck she'd dared before. She was only slightly surprised that Rumplestiltskin turned his head to her, returning her kiss with another on her lips. He matched the pressure of her kiss on the cheek, lingering only as long as she'd dared. Belle shut her eyes, wanting to remember properly this time—what it was like, how it made her feel to kiss someone—but the sensation was too elusive. Just a brush of sweetness, then gone, leaving her shy of him and he of her.

"Do they really weep for me?" she asked, sadly. "In the town?"

"I don't know." Rumplestiltskin hardly managed a whisper. "Very likely."

"Wouldn't you rather think they wish us happiness?" She pressed his hand, causing him to glance down as if he doubted the evidence of his senses. "Wouldn't you rather try? I would."

Rumplestiltskin straightened, nodding.

"Then we shall choose to believe it, my lady." Barely hesitating, he lifted her hand, kissed it quickly, and left the kitchen with strides just short of running.

Belle's knees went weak. She sat down hard on the table's edge. She'd all but demanded he come to her bed! Her husband, yes, but Rumplestiltskin! The Dark One! This wasn't how she'd expected her marriage to be!

She'd known since girlhood that boys—men—found her appealing. Her father knew it and, long before Belle was old enough to understand why, she'd found herself always with a female companion when out of her parents' sight. Not a chaperone, exactly, but watchful nonetheless, to make sure that she didn't come to mischief in secret. Once Belle grew old enough to know why chastity made her a valuable commodity on the complex marriage market of the kingdoms, it hadn't been difficult to persuade Papa that she could be trusted. And he did trust her, even to ride out alone in search of books to help in the war. But he worried. And he fumed when men looked at his daughter in _that_ way, with disrespect.

When it came to marriage, Belle always simply assumed that her husband would be glad to have her in his bed—never that she'd need to persuade him that she was willing to have him in hers!

Rumplestiltskin said that she was lovely. Belle preferred that compliment to any of Gaston's florid declarations about beauty. Rumplestiltskin _meant_ it. And some part of her kept trying to imagine Gaston in Rumplestiltskin's place that night. The notion made her skin crawl. Gaston knew how to be charming, even gracious when necessary, but she didn't think he knew how to be kind, or how to show any woman respect.

Thoughtful, unsettled, she took her time over washing and putting away the tea things, deep in thought while she worked. On her wedding night, she'd been too nervous to think of anything but following Rumplestiltskin's lead; too thankful that it didn't hurt, wasn't too excruciatingly embarrassing, to do more than wait for him to finish the business. But he'd been kind, and responded in turn to her touch. When he kissed her palm, so moved and aware of her, was that simple gratitude? Or a sign that he longed for more kisses?

Belle touched her fingertips to her own lips. She could still feel where Rumplestiltskin's had just touched hers—still picture that anguished look on his face, so sure that she couldn't accept him.

Well, he was wrong about that. He'd find that his wife knew better than to judge someone by their looks. Besides, he wasn't ugly. Odd, _extremely_ strange, quite frightening, but not ugly. Sometimes he strutted, vain and boastful as a peacock. Was that an act, a mask over this angry certainty that she must reject him on sight, without giving him a chance to win her respect?

Rumplestiltskin didn't yet know who he was married to. But she'd show him.


	4. Sated

There had to be a route from the kitchen to her rooms that didn't disturb Rumplestiltskin at his spinning, but Belle had yet to find it. She took a steadying breath and headed upstairs, determined to face him with a confidence that she didn't feel deep down. But he wasn't at his wheel, and Belle didn't see him at all on her way back to her chamber.

She left two of the baskets on her bed. Those contained cloths, ribbons and fripperies, herbs and lotions; female things, intimate things, and Belle was glad of them. In her haste to pack, with Lotte going all to pieces, she'd forgotten to bring everything she needed for her own comfort. The lotion that Lotte used on her hair, for example. Already Belle's hair felt heavy, her skin dry. The gifts would help. She could clean her teeth again with the pot of coarse salt, soot and sage. Pride of place in the smallest basket was given to a comb, beautifully carved from ivory and inlaid with shell. Belle was almost afraid to use it on her thick, auburn hair in case she snapped the teeth and spoiled it.

It was too late to wash her hair again now—it would never dry before morning. She combed it instead, then tied it into a loose braid at the nape of her neck with one of the ribbons from the baskets.

She had the vague idea that men liked to see a woman's hair loose about her shoulders. Rumplestiltskin had wanted to touch her hair even when it was a shocking mess, back at the inn.

Belle bit her lip at that memory. In her mind, that night was in fragments, each sharp and bright and each prone to coming upon her suddenly when she was thinking of something else. His questions, his touches, his trembling. His leaving. How it felt, being with a man—finally knowing what it was like and being underwhelmed. And overwhelmed. How he smelled, the weight of him above her, the warmth of another body with hers, and how his hair tickled her cheek as he moved. The stuttering of his breath.

She shivered. If he wanted to touch her hair again, wanted to see it loose, he could always untie the ribbon.

The new nightgown had softened with wear and become more comfortable against her skin. Belle sat by the fire for a while with a book in her hands, feet tucked awkwardly beneath her in the wooden chair to keep them warm. She tried to read but kept catching herself listening for the sound of Rumplestiltskin's approach, distracted. The expectation of his visit made her feel shame, uneasy about herself when the act itself had not. It wasn't quite a yearning, but she'd liked the kiss they shared in the kitchen; kept remembering his mouth hot against her palm on their wedding night, pouring sincerity into that hesitant joining; his silent expression, in the dark, of something he clearly guarded against by day.

Would he come to her?

She waited for what felt like hours, turning the pages of the book without really seeing them. When she started to yawn, struggling to read with tired eyes, Belle snuffed all but one of the candles and went to bed. She wriggled to the middle where it was easiest to get warm and pulled the sheet up over her head to trap the heat from her breath.

It must have been another hour—longer even—before she heard Rumpelstiltskin's footsteps descending towards her room. She'd barely explored the lower floors yet—the rooms above hers remained a mystery. What did he do when he wasn't spinning straw? Magic spells?

She held her breath when he reached the landing outside her door. Belle could picture him, that elegant figure on the crooked twist in the stairs, hand clenching and fingers wiggling as he battled with himself over whether to open the door.

It was his hesitation that undid Belle, unwelcome fear rising up to taint her open-hearted curiosity. She wanted to welcome Rumplestiltskin. She _did_ welcome the prospect of his company—of learning about him and not being alone in this place. But what had she let herself in for? Would he be as gentle with a willing bride as when he assumed her unwillingness? Would he take her bold words for permission to do anything he pleased with her?

Rumplestiltskin came in, first opening the door slowly and peeking around it, then edging inside when he found Belle awake. He glanced unhappily at the candle, and she remembered that he'd chosen darkness before. He made an effort at a smile, hooking his fingertips together and then pulling them apart.

Belle sat up.

"I thought you'd be sleeping," he said.

"Too cold!" That was mostly true. Her feet were frozen, even if she had huddled long enough to thaw the mattress in the middle.

"Hmm." Rumplestiltskin came in properly and shut the door behind him. At his careless gesture, the fire turned from glowing embers to a blaze. The air felt warmer at once.

He'd discarded the waistcoat since Belle saw him last. He looked less imposing without that stiff, high collar—softer and less angular in loose silk than he did in leather and brocade. The shirt tucked into the waist of tight leather breeches, revealing Rumplestiltskin to be slender and spare.

Perching himself on the edge of the mattress, his every movement slow and careful, he eyed her in the gloom.

"So," he said, softly, a lilt in his voice that brought out an accent Belle couldn't place--that sounded a little like the Old Tongue spoken aloud. Fluid and odd, just like him. "You'd have me be a husband to you, in spite of all. Why?"

Why? Belle didn't know what to tell him. She tried out thoughts and discarded them. Not to please or mollify him. Not for lust. Not because they had a deal, but perhaps because their deal meant he was the only choice. Curiosity, yes. Because she'd liked how it felt to move him so deeply, even amidst her fears that night? Because Rumplestiltskin asked her permission before coming into her bed? Because he'd stopped when they'd done just enough rather than use her further without her consent? Because he wasn't _Gaston_ , of all people? Because without him, she'd be alone here for the rest of her life?

All of that, bits of it jumbled up into a voiceless need and fear of isolation, yet none of it seemed genuine enough to tell him—none of it felt complete enough to be a reason. Belle offered Rumplestiltskin her hand instead, reluctantly leaving her warm patch to edge nearer to him.

Rumplestiltskin gripped her hand loosely, bowing his head so that his hair concealed his face from her.

"Did you want a wife who'd lock that door and choose to hate you?" She squeezed his fingers. They were warm, unresisting; Rumplestiltskin curled them slightly so that her hand didn't slip away when she loosened her grip again. "I don't want my life to be like that. Do you?"

As Belle had not answered his question, so Rumplestiltskin did not answer hers. She heard him swallow, then sigh. He seemed small at the centre of his whirlwind of magic and so hard to reach, even when he was near enough to touch.

Rumplestiltskin brought his left hand up and cupped her hand between both of his, turning hers gently until her palm faced upwards, then pressing something small and solid into it. Closing her fingers over it, he let go, pulling his hands back towards his body and knitting his fingers together.

Opening her hand, Belle saw a tiny glass bottle there, capped with red wax. The colour was dark—she couldn't make it out clearly, but it seemed to hold a small quantity of smouldering embers, the contents moving and alive like blowing on last night's fire. It was cold to the touch.

"For your pleasure," Rumplestiltskin explained, gruffly, head bowed so far that his chin must be touching his chest. "I can give you that much."

Belle stared at the bottle, distracted by the beauty of it--by having magic in her hand. Just looking at it gave her pleasure.

But, of course, that wasn't what Rumplestiltskin meant. She thought about it for a moment.

"Do you use this? For, um, your pleasure?"

He laughed almost silently, deep in his chest and with no trace of his unnerving giggle. Shaking his head, Rumplestiltskin couldn't completely hide his smile from her, though he kept his head bowed.

"Few would need potions to help them enjoy you, my dear. But a woman's pleasure is... more elusive. Harder to kindle. Slower to burn." He turned his head, timid still, until he could see the bottle in her palm. Stroked two fingertips over the glass without touching Belle's skin. He'd neatened his black nails since she last noticed them--cut them shorter and tidied the ragged edges. "I've made many a good deal for such as this," he coaxed. "Love potions never work, but lust, now… that's simple."

Belle closed her hand around the bottle again, smiling too. Lust. She knew the word, had the definition solid in her mind, but the sensation of it remained a mystery to her. And Rumplestiltskin had bottled it for her, certain that she couldn't enjoy him without it. That was… kind, and sweet, and terribly sad.

"A woman told me that men aren't difficult," she confided, slowly, remembering Elena's cheery confidence on the subject. Rumplestiltskin looked up, surprised into meeting her gaze. Belle smiled without having to try. "Is that what she meant, that it's easy to set you on fire?"

"Almost certainly." Amusement, warm rather than cruel, suited Rumplestiltskin's worn face very well.

"I don't need this if you don't." Not that the magic didn't tempt her, but that was just the problem. Temptation. Magic could make anything easy and, in doing so, rob it of meaning. She offered the bottle back to Rumplestiltskin, but he waved it away.

"Keep it," he muttered, shyly. "It's a small thing. Pretty."

"And your price, sir?"

Rumplestiltskin flinched. She'd meant to tease him, but he took the question seriously and named his price.

"A kiss, then." He met her halfway when she leaned over to oblige him. This time he lingered a moment with his lips to hers, closing his eyes. Belle pressed back, gently. He sighed when he sat back again. "A fair price," he said, nodding with careful composure. "A bargain." She wasn't the only person in the room worried about losing her dignity, Belle realised, relieved. He was nervous too. "Be cautious with it, my lady. It's powerful stuff. You'd be unwise to drink my potion unless you plan on being...sated... at some length afterwards."

Belle saw mischief in the warning, a saucy naughtiness and a sly smile at her expense, but nodded and committed it to memory nevertheless. She had no intention of drinking his potion, but she'd enjoy having it glowing among her belongings—a reminder of its possibilities, and of his thoughtfulness. And she took his choice of word to heart, too. 'Sated'. A fire to be quenched.

"Put this on top of my trunk for me?" She pressed the tiny bottle back into his hand. "And come to bed?"

She felt Rumplestiltskin tremble at her invitation. With lust of his own, she hoped, not revulsion at the very idea! Working her way back to the warm spot in the middle of the bed, Belle tried to find a place where her feet didn't encounter cold sheets. Husbands and wives were meant to keep one another warm at night—lots of stories mentioned that. If Rumplestiltskin didn't want to kiss or caress her, if he didn't need sleep, she hoped he didn't mind helping her get the bed warm on cold nights.

He did as she'd asked, going to her trunk and leaving the bottle of magic there. He was slower returning, a hesitation in his step, but then he extinguished the candle with a gesture and slipped into bed beside her. As before, she felt the nearness of magic when he changed his clothing for a nightshirt. Rumplestiltskin didn't touch her, kept his distance, but when Belle reached over for his hand, he took hers and squeezed.

"Am I too bold?" she asked him. The darkness made it so much easier to give voice to such fragile thoughts.

"No." He rolled on his side and faced her. Belle could see nothing, barely even the shape of him, but she knew that Rumplestiltskin saw well enough in the dark. "If everyone could be as wise, so young..." His voice changed, one thought interrupting another, and it was the mischief-maker lying beside her, momentarily delighted with his own cleverness. "Well, I'd be out of a job, wouldn't I? That'd be a pity."

Laughter never featured in Belle's hazy imaginings of the marriage bed. But how better to put someone at their ease than to laugh with them? Rumplestiltskin's queer giggle mingled with her scandalised snigger.

"There, now," Rumplestiltskin said when they were still again. He touched her face, trailing his fingernails gently down her cheek. A tickle. "There's pleasure, eh?" His fingertips moved along her jaw, stroked the smile at her lips, then drifted down her throat to find the collar of her nightdress, following the curve with a fingertip. 

It wasn't the businesslike touch of their wedding night, all hasty then done with. Rumplestiltskin indulged curious fingers, teasing just beneath her collar. Belle closed her eyes, breath hitching when he ran his palm across her chest and found her left breast, then her right--the lightest of touches, learning her shape without greed. He covered her right breast with his hand and felt the meagre weight of it, caressed her, and something tightened in the small of Belle's back, pulling deep inside and parting her lips in surprise. His exploration became a massage, little circles with his palm, each one nudging her nipple with his fingertips—each nudge coaxing her nipple to stand. It was... anything but unpleasant.

Belle licked her lips and gripped his shoulder. Should she touch him back? Copy him? She'd just begun to focus her attention on the question when Rumplestiltskin caught her by the waist and drew her towards him as he rolled in to meet her. The result was a kiss, hot and hasty, wet, and yet so, so different from the one Gaston tried to push on her that time. Rumplestiltskin's lips plucked at hers, and as she gasped her surprise—oh!—he teased her inner lip with the tip of his tongue before smothering her mouth with his own, clutching her body close.

This, Belle thought, overwhelmed by the feeling and far too busy to be frightened about it—this was something that needed to be _sated_ ; this sudden urgency in him, this appetite that overcame his caution and made him greedy for her embrace. This was fire.

"Are you going to— Again, I mean, and this— Oh!" She was making no sense at all. His touch seemed to have separated her mouth from her brains, leaving her flustered and clumsy, but Rumplestiltskin could hardly misunderstand. He hushed her, dry fingertips replacing his lips against hers, knee pushing up higher between her legs until Belle parted them enough to let him rest there, his leg between hers, opening the way for his hand.

"There," he murmured, pushing her nightdress up her right thigh. "Like before."

Belle nodded. Didn't even know what she'd been asking, but he'd given an answer that soothed her; he meant to do what she already knew. She hadn't known what to make of his touching down there, the first time; the cold shock he'd given her with that stuff on his hand, then the patient preparation. Nobody had warned her to expect that. Or this. His hand was dry, this time, creeping up beneath her gown while he kissed her, lightly now. No shocks—just gently brushing her nest of curls with a nudge of the knuckles. The anticipation was stranger than the touch. Belle found herself pushing back against his lips, seeking another of those deep kisses, as if rewarding the timid progress of his hand with a kiss might make him hurry.

He did kiss her, his hand abandoning its quest and finding her bare hip instead, grasping there while he concentrated on her mouth. He liked kissing; Belle could tell, could feel it, and feel him holding back as well. This was like dining together, she decided; you didn't scrabble for every morsel, snatching from the platters all greedy and grotesque, even if you were ravenous for the meal. Rumplestiltskin was being… polite.

She almost laughed, the sound rising up only to be smothered when she lifted her head to press her lips harder against his. Her muffled laugh made Rumplestiltskin shiver, fingertips digging into the flesh of her hip. When she parted her lips, offered herself that way, he kissed her like he had before, his tongue teasing into her mouth. When she parted her legs further, he responded to that invitation as well, leaving off the kiss and moving his hand from her hip to cup her secret place in the warmth of his palm.

She'd just grown used to that when she felt magic, right against her flesh; Rumplestiltskin conjured the balm right into his hand without letting go. Strange feeling, but very nice. Warm and warming, his fingertips working the stuff everywhere, rubbing her with it. Inside her body, two fingers, making her ready to receive him—making it harder to keep still, to concentrate, to follow his lead. Her body wanted to fidget, wanting more and less of this touching at the same time, and her good intentions about trying to please him better, trying to learn, to show her willingness to try kissing, evaporated into scattered, breathy confusion.

"You do want me?" she begged, the uncertainty worming its way free while her self-control was distracted. "You do… I mean… I'm sorry, I don't know what I mean."

"Oh, yes," breathed Rumplestiltskin, stilling his hand with those two fingers up inside her. "I want you." He drew the fingers out, slowly, watching her face when he started teasing her again.

Belle could hear his every breath – close, fast, a catch in his throat. He tried to kiss her again, but this one didn't work; a peck, a nudge, then she had to turn her head to catch her own breath just as he pressed forward. Cheek to cheek with him, gripping his arms, Belle tried to be still for him, but it was a torment to try! She wished he'd stop this, get on with it—put himself inside her so the blunt sensation of being filled would soothe the elusive one of being teased with slippery fingers.

And then he did stop touching, hand moving to rest at her knee, and Belle felt bereft. But only for a moment. He came over her, between her knees like before, closer than close. Instead of entering her, Rumplestiltskin kissed her again, with such shy hesitation that her heart ached. A moan of frustration escaped her desperate grip on silence; a keening, unhappy sound that startled him and embarrassed her.

"What is it?" Short of breath, face to face with her, Rumplestiltskin went perfectly still.

To Belle's relief, she heard some of her own struggle in his voice—the same confusion. Now that he was still, Belle could think more clearly. The solidity of his body was reassuring next to those teasing sensations she'd been battling. Elusive, he'd said, and that was exactly the word. He knew about this. It was all right.

"It's nothing," she promised. "Just all new." She held his face between her hands, lightly—felt sweat and trembling, and the softness of his hair on the backs of her hands. She didn't mean to be contrary, but she hadn't the words to explain, nor enough breath, and her husband was shaking and waiting for her to give herself.

Belle tried to kiss him—a clumsy mess of a kiss, but he answered it excitedly, hard against her lips, so she did it again; let her hands slide down his back and then, as low as she could reach and finding bare skin, she urged him to her and felt his member poke her slippery flesh. He gasped, breaking the kiss and easing away, collecting himself and then bringing his hand back between them. His fingertips delved into the slippery balm, easing more of it inside her, then doing as he'd done on their wedding night and rubbing it onto himself as well.

"My lady," he whispered, distracting her with a kiss as he pushed his member against her entrance.

It was easier to take him in, this time, and Rumplestiltskin did not go as slowly. He pushed deeper, deeper until they could not have joined more fully without their bodies becoming one, then slid his hands beneath her shoulders, settling close, chest to chest with her. It was like being touched everywhere at once; his thighs between hers, the cloth of his nightgown intruding between them on one side, while her own was bunched up on her belly, pressing into her when he did. When he settled nearer, his chest rubbed her breasts with every movement and his mouth, whenever they managed to be still enough to meet each other, covered hers, open and hungry for her inexpert kisses.

Hesitant at first, his strokes became steadier, shallower, and more rapid. Sometimes he'd almost slip from her body, only to catch himself, fidget between her thighs and plant himself better before taking up his rhythmic thrusts again.

Belle had never felt so... Yes, that was it; she'd never _felt_ so, and she lacked the words for any of it. Rumplestiltskin rocked gently above her, his cheek beside hers, his hands beginning to curl beneath her as he grew more excited, more urgent. His nails dug briefly into her skin before he caught himself, moved his hands so as not to do it again. Even that small pain became part of the puzzle of sensation and emotion. Belle was lost in it and smiling helplessly.

Once, he shuddered and she thought he'd spent himself, but he only paused, resting deep inside her and devoting himself to giving her a proper kiss. His lips slid from hers, sideways—her cheek, her jaw—while his left hand found its way to her breast and squeezed her in time with the movements of his busy mouth.

Belle squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself not to make a sound—not to spoil his enjoyment. But Rumplestiltskin groaned aloud, bringing his lips back to hers, clumsy and heartfelt.

The more she touched his back, his hair, the more she excited him. If she brought her hand anywhere near his mouth he kissed it—or tried to, mouthing at her breathlessly but too deep in his pleasuring to be still, to pause for a kiss. Belle managed to hold on to that revelation and make use of it, rubbing his back encouragingly in time with his quickening thrusts.

Hands cupping her shoulders, he buried his face in the pillow beside her face, muffling the reluctant sounds he made; his back tightening beneath Belle's palms until he began to falter, overcome, those steady dips between her thighs becoming incoherent jerking while his hands clutched at her shoulders He tried to be silent, muffling his groan in the pillow, but this time Belle couldn't doubt that Rumplestiltskin was satisfied, or mistake the long moments when he spent his pleasure inside her; couldn't fail to notice that he twitched his hips even as urgency abated, the strokes in her becoming quicker and shallower until he slid out of her in a hot, wet rush that made her toes curl.

 _Sated_ , she thought, stroking Rumplestiltskin's hair and not minding his weight, close above her and warmer than any blanket. He wasn't a large man—didn't squash her as they lay like this. Belle peacefully explored the word with her mind, attaching it forever to the memory of this boneless, panting stillness in her husband. _Sated._

It was a nice word. She'd known it, of course, but not that it could mean something as nice as this.

Nice, but he hadn't wanted to stop doing it, even when he was spent. Even nicer for him, then, and with the temptation to be a glutton at the feast. That was… interesting. And this was nice too—this _afterwards_ , not snatching himself away from her as if he'd just finished a distasteful chore. Belle fingered his hair, before following it down to his shoulder with a stroke of her palm.

Rumplestiltskin recovered himself quickly, easing some of his weight from her without quite breaking their embrace. Instead, a little awkwardly but displaying his great strength, he reversed their positions by rolling Belle on top of him in one, swift movement. While she was still surprised by that, he skimmed his hands down her back, smoothing down her nightdress to cover her bare backside. They'd lost the bedclothes completely. Belle could feel them around her ankles and self-consciousness came rushing back to find her. She fidgeted and tried to cover herself better.

Oh, gods, she was _dripping_ on him! More blood? She scrambled away from him, pulling her nightgown between her legs to stem the flow and squeaking a mortified apology. Rumplestiltskin caught her by the arm before she could scramble out of reach. Gently, but brooking no argument, he drew her back to lie against his right side, gathering her into the crook of his arm.

"No, no, it's not that," he murmured, holding her firmly until she stopped panicking, then letting her be. Belle stayed where she was, curled against him, too embarrassed to do anything else--sure she'd never be able to look him in the face again. "Hush, now," soothed Rumplestiltskin. "It's a messy business. Sticky, sticky." He dabbed her on the nose with a finger that still smelled of his balm—the stuff he'd put all over her. "Nothing to fret about."

"Oh." Small voiced, hot-cheeked, Belle let him draw her head to his shoulder—made herself comfortable. His silk gown was soft beneath her cheek, and the embrace was warm.

Rumplestiltskin caressed her hair, exploring the long braid, and then—Belle smiled despite her blushes—he plucked the blue ribbon from the end of the braid and began to smooth her hair free across her back. He worked at this, as patiently as at his spinning, until Belle no longer felt so mortified.

"You must think me such a child," she said, cross with herself for spoiling this. And cross with him, too, though she had no idea why. She felt out of sorts now, all wrong, and it had been so nice while they were busy doing it.

"Oh, Belle," Rumplestiltskin said, his voice deep and sincere, soft, soothing her blushes into an all-over warmth. She liked how her name sounded on his lips. "You're no child."


	5. A Particular Need

Imagine how long the nights must seem if you never, ever slept. Belle tried and couldn't, but she shivered, hugging a pillow to herself as she pictured Rumplestiltskin spending the nights as he spent his days—spinning straw into yet more gold.

She'd slept uneasily but without dreams that she could remember the next morning. There was a drowsy memory of Rumplestiltskin leaving her side, whispering something about not wanting to keep her awake. She'd been too sleepy to think of an answer, and didn't even remember him closing the door.  
Falling asleep beside Rumplestiltskin felt strange, but pleasantly so. Belle wanted to do it again soon. As for the rest of it, she hardly knew what to think. To be able to move someone like that with her body—she liked how that felt. She loved the way Rumplestiltskin relaxed afterwards, so obviously pleased with what they'd done, so _sated_ , and apparently glad to lie beside her for a while, even if he didn't mean to stay the night.

His nights must be so _lonely_. To sleep alone was one thing, but if he never slept at all...

Belle's body remembered last night all by itself. Thinking about it gave her a pang, a plucking sensation deep down where Rumplestiltskin touched her. Was that a taste of what she'd feel if she drank that potion of his? The idea made her catch her breath and fidget again, feeling the echo of his touch. It was a restless feeling and she indulged it for a while, her own hand exploring where Rumplestiltskin's had been, stirring the faintest echoes of similar sensation. Her fingers were much smaller than his. She barely felt them inside her.

When her curiosity wore off, Belle rather wished the feeling would stop. She got out of bed, fighting her way free of the pile of down pillows, and went to have a bath. This time she tried the lotion sent by the townspeople, combing it through her wet hair as she lay in hot, soapy water, feeling spoilt and slightly silly. Was this luxury what Rumplestiltskin thought she was used to?

She needed to thank the local people for the gifts. As soon as the snow melted she should... Unless Rumplestiltskin quite literally meant that she could never leave this building! Surely not? With his blessing, surely, or at his side...

But Belle couldn't be sure of that. He might intend to keep her within these walls forever, trapped by the deal they'd made.

The thought spoiled everything and made her frightened again. Belle got out and dried herself, taking out her bad mood on her own skin by scrubbing harder than necessary with the towel. When she dried between her thighs, the touch of cloth brought back the tugging inside that she'd been trying to wash away, more a dry-mouthed discomfort than the breathless curiosity it had seemed at first, because she suddenly resented Rumplestiltskin for making her feel it in the first place.

Oh, enough! Stop worrying, stop thinking in circles! Just find Rumplestiltskin and ask him what he meant about never setting foot outside. And if that was the deal she'd made, to be in his home forever, so be it. Her prison was a palace beyond anything fit for a queen, she was unharmed, and her husband was... thoughtful, in his way. Just as he said, there were far worse bargains—ones plenty of people had to live with every day. The lives she'd saved would _always_ be worth the personal cost, whatever happened.

Belle decided to take Rumplestiltskin tea and ask her questions, but she couldn't find him. Not that she had any idea where to start looking if he wasn't to be found at his spinning wheel.

So, breakfast was bread and jam, alone by the kitchen fire, and Belle was cross with herself when she started to cry for no reason at all. It wasn't even homesickness this time, though it opened the door to let that feeling return too, all hollow and heartsick, adding grief to whatever she was crying about in the first place!

Still out of sorts once she'd dried her tears, Belle set out to find her husband. He'd come to her room from somewhere above, last night, so perhaps he'd gone back there when he left her? And if she failed to find him, she'd at least see a new part of the castle and take her mind off things.

One turn of the staircase above her own room, Belle faced half a dozen choices of direction. A long passage, several doors, the continuation of the stairs upwards or, at the far end of the passage, what looked like an entrance to the still narrower stairs of a tower. As before, she couldn't persuade her mind to match the directions in front of her to the shape of the building she'd so briefly seen from the outside. It left her with the uneasy feeling that if she got too lost in this place, she'd never be found.

Belle tried the first door to her left since it was nearest to her own room. It was empty, like so many of the below-stairs rooms, but showed no sign of the damage she'd seen down there. Coughing, waving her hand in front of her face to ward off swirls of dust, Belle moved to the next room on the opposite side of the corridor. This one was the same, as were the next two—empty, shuttered, and obviously disused.

As she'd suspected, the narrow staircase at the far end wound tightly upwards and out of sight, the first step half-hidden behind a stone arch. Opposite this entrance was another door, identical to the others except that it had no layer of dust beneath the door. This one wouldn't open for her. Naturally, that made her itch to know what was behind it, but she didn't want to argue with magic. Or, until she knew where she stood, with Rumplestiltskin. She took the stairs instead.

Slim as she was, Belle barely had room to flex her arms to lift her skirt as she climbed. She grazed her elbows against the stone in three, tight, lefthand turns.

She knew she'd found Rumplestiltskin before she reached the top—heard his footsteps on wooden floorboards, moving quickly to intercept her. He awaited her just beyond the rail where the stairs gave out into a circular room, all warm brown wood and ancient beams.

"There you are," she said, slightly out of breath from the climb.

Hands behind his back, back in his leather coat and stiff brocade, Rumplestiltskin nodded graciously.

"Here I am," he agreed and stood aside to usher her in.

Belle stopped in her tracks, not sure where to look first. Small casement windows overlooked the blue and white blur, with no sign of curtains or shutters. Two trestle tables bore the signs of great activity; open books, quills in inkpots, unrolled scrolls; bottles of all colours and containing all kinds of things; jars, pouches, and strange alchemical tools made of glass and brass. Herbs and dried roots hung from the beams on hooks or twine. The walls were all but hidden by a series of tall bookcases, each one groaning under the weight of so many books. And a spinning wheel sat close to the window, which was open to the bitter morning. The room was _freezing_! 

"Are you well, my lady?"

Realising that she'd stared too long, gawping at his possessions, Belle turned back to face Rumplestiltskin. 

"Yes, thank you." She smiled, glad to see him. Even if he proved to be her jailer, she couldn't bring herself to shun the only possible company in the castle. "So, this is where you disappear to?"

To Belle's surprise, Rumplestiltskin gave the rhetorical question a moment's thought, head cocked.

"I think this is where I come from," he said, nodding decisively and pointing with both forefingers at the floor beneath his feet. "Yes. My work is here. My potions, my enchantments, my herbs and books." He exaggerated a confidential whisper behind his hand. "All my secrets."

Belle grinned.

"And a spinning wheel." She could see he'd been as busy with this one as with the other downstairs. A pewter pot beside his stool was overflowing with coiled gold. So beautiful. She went for a better look. "More straw into gold."

"Yes." Rumplestiltskin sounded unsettled by the comment, as though he'd been expecting something else. "Perhaps you'll bring me fresh straw up here as well?"

Oh, he sounded so ordinary when he spoke that way—hopeful, uncertain, and mild. And when she turned and faced him, his appearance no longer jarred—no longer seemed mismatched with such softly-spoken words. She must be growing used to his strangeness, to his golden eyes and scaled skin.

"I will," she promised. "But always straw? Don't you spin wool?"

Rumplestiltskin shrugged, leather coat and mantle creaking with the movement. Belle didn't think she'd ever get used to _that_. It looked like he was wearing most of a crocodile across his shoulders.

"Anyone can spin wool," he said, a wrinkle-nosed sneer that came with a twinkle in the eye.

"So that's why you spend all your time making gold? Because you're the only one who can?"

"It's as good a reason as any, no?"

Belle smiled, shook her head, and had another look around the room. Rumplestiltskin went past her to the nearest worktable and closed a big book, moving it aside. Belle saw, just for a moment, that he'd used the ribbon he'd taken from her hair last night to mark his place.

Flushing, feeling a new and squirming pleasure that he'd do such a sweet thing, Belle hid herself and her blush from him by examining the bookshelves. Her home town boasted a library—her mother's library with its own wing inside the castle. Scholars sometimes came to consult rarer volumes, but Mama hadn't collected books because they were rare. She'd collected the knowledge contained in them, catalogued it, and shared it freely. The books Belle brought with her were her own, not rare at all. Just stories she loved. But Rumplestiltskin's books were all old and probably unique. Herbals and grimoires, histories and pedigrees. Many of the worn spines bore no lettering, no clue about what lay within. Belle's fingers itched to take one down at random and open the cover.

"I've always wanted to see where a sorcerer does his spells," she sighed, her romantic imagination getting the better of her common sense for a moment, inspired by the wonderful books. "Brewed potions."

"A curious wish," Rumplestiltskin frowned, puzzled. "But here you have it."

"It looks like a kitchen," Belle decided, drifting over to the table behind him and reaching for a marble mortar. "A messy kitchen."

Faster than a snake-strike, Rumplestiltskin seized Belle's wrist. His grip wasn't rough, not hurting her, but he held her immobile and almost made her scream!

"Careful, dearie. That's poison. Touch nothing in here without first consulting me." He leaned in close to hiss, "Ever." At Belle's frantic nod, Rumplestiltskin let go, turned her to face him, then captured her hand again and held it by his side. He still held her just a shade more firmly than was comfortable. His eyes, this close, seemed to look right through her. "What doesn't scratch my thick hide might just strip the flesh from your bones," he said, quite conversationally, in that sing-song voice that played with cruelty—with Belle's worst fears. "And I really can't have that. I like your flesh where it is."

"I—I'll be careful." Belle didn't dare ask why he'd be making dreadful poisons. But she didn't like that bruising grip, nor that he leaned on the word 'flesh' to give the statement such lascivious intent. It mocked what they'd done together in bed, and she knew it for sick bravado on his part. Maybe lying with her had a different meaning for him, but Belle knew unquestioningly that it meant as much to Rumplestiltskin as to her. And that he wasn't going to treat her like this if he ever wanted to share her bed again!

Yanking herself free, Belle ran for the stairs—ran not because she feared him, but because she didn't want to give him time to stop her.

Scraping her elbows against the curving walls, Belle burst out into the corridor beneath and carried on running until she reached the stairs to her own room. She could go in there, hide, lock the door and...

But she'd outrun her own fright and, anyway, Rumplestiltskin didn't come after her. It was anger propelling her away from him now, and she marched down to her kitchen and shut that door with a bang—not because it could possibly keep him out, but because it made her feel better.

How could that be the same man who offered her potions for her pleasure? Who touched her so sweetly, hesitating if she so much as flinched? How could that kind man turn and strike like a viper, his eyes cold and terrible?

The same man who shyly hid the stolen ribbon in his book had left a red mark circling her wrist, and Belle was—yes— _disgusted_ by him.

The kitchen was her space away from the strangeness and uncertainty of this vast, empty castle. As near a feeling to home as she could find. It calmed her, and the fire burned brighter when she hugged herself in a shiver that had little to do with the chill.

Rumplestiltskin's magic looked after her, but he also made potions that could strip the flesh from her bones.

It was like having _two_ husbands! And both of them strangers!

What _was_ he, this Rumplestiltskin? He lived in a castle but kept to a handful of rooms. He surrounded himself with opulence but spent his time at a spinning wheel plying the humblest of trades. He dressed for effect, oiled his hair, but covered all the mirrors and hardly let anyone see him. He bottled pleasure for his wife, then went upstairs to make the most awful poisons!

Well, he could get his own tea while she thought about things. Belle was hungry, and tired of living on bread and butter. A kitchen was a kitchen—always useful, always warm, and she was going to learn how to run this one for herself, even if Rumplestiltskin never ate a bite of what she cooked.

She'd cooked a few things under the supervision of the castle cook at home, but it shamed her to realise how little she knew. The larder had joints and cuts of meat that she could name but didn't know how to prepare. Racks and shelves of fruit and vegetables, preserves, and dry goods stared back at Belle, a nobleman's daughter who'd never gone hungry, yet didn't know how to turn any of this bounty into a meal.

But she'd learn. There were eggs stacked in a porcelain pot with a lid that made the whole thing look like a hen on her nest. Belle took two, hung a griddle over the fire, which obediently turned to a bed of hot coals for her, and nervously cracked the eggs onto the hot iron. They cooked through quickly, hissing and spitting, and didn't want to come off the plate once they were done, but she managed in the end, scraping the mess onto a china plate with a feeling of mild triumph.

Her nurse used to bring her eggs, boiled in their shells, the yolks sticky and golden with the whites just set. These were less appealing to look at, but they tasted good enough with a slice of bread and a spoonful of pickle from her gift baskets.

She'd made a start.

It took forever to clean the griddle once it cooled enough for her to move. There'd be a trick to it because there was a trick to most things, but Belle would have to find it out for herself. Who could she ask? Rumplestiltskin? She snorted a little laugh at that idea. Rumplestiltskin used magic for everything. He'd forgotten about his kitchen for centuries, so she was willing to bet that he'd no more idea about cooking an egg or scrubbing a pan than she had. Standing on tiptoe to reach into the deep stone sink, she scraped at the heavy iron plate with a knife, then scrubbed with a dishcloth until the last of the egg came unstuck. By then, the front of Belle's dress was wet through, and her hands were chilled from the icy pump water.

For the first time since coming to the Dark Castle, Belle let herself escape into a book. Her dress soon dried, with the chair pulled up to the fire in her room. Her childhood books were all adventures. This one had a wizard in it, but he was nothing like Rumplestiltskin. He banished curses, freed people from enchanted sleep, healed the sick, and dressed perfectly sensibly in a long, white robe.

Belle realised by the end that she'd never really known him, this bearded, wise wizard. The writer spun a dazzling tale filled with adventure and peril, but Belle didn't know the colour of the wizard's eyes or skin. He was an idea trapped in two dimensions, ink on paper, and he wasn't real. To have so much power, she thought—to have a wand that could do or undo anything—would be a test of character every moment of every day. Might he stumble under the weight of the burden, somewhere between the pages? Might he get lonely when the only people who came to see him did so because they wanted something? In that, her word-wizard met the real one, Rumplestiltskin, who'd been so long without the warmth of company and kindness that he'd forgotten how to respond.

Staring at her book, Belle felt that pang again when she thought of Rumplestiltskin shying from a kind word. It touched her heart, sore, but plucked much lower down as well—a feeling she couldn't name. Not unlike how it felt with Rumplestiltskin inside her. A little like how it felt when she used to touch herself on her way to sleep, chasing tiny thrills of enjoyment with curious fingertips until there was nothing to pursue, or until sleep overcame her. Lotte said it was naughty, and never to put her fingers inside or she wouldn't be a virgin anymore and her husband would know, but Lotte believed anything she was told. Belle hadn't believed it, but neither had she been able to argue why.

She didn't think Rumplestiltskin would've been able to tell, amid all that pushing and wriggling, if her maidenhead was there or not. And he hadn't even wanted it to be, had he? Lotte's ideas were for the daughters of high nobility who might have to let a doctor look before the king would let them marry. She liked to dream that Belle was royalty, but Papa's word had been enough for King George. And Belle's word on her virginity had been all that Papa needed to stake his honour on that oath.

Silly. Two people in the dark trying to shove a sausage into a hole. Who'd know the difference if she'd had a hundred lovers or none? And even if a husband could tell, why would it be wrong to touch part of her own body before he did? He might visit it, but it belonged to her!

Silly, silly. A messy business, Rumplestiltskin called it, and it was—all sweaty and slippery, heavy breathing and flopping about together like they were struggling for a prize.

So... So why did thinking about it make her moisture flow, down below? Why did remembering Rumplestiltskin's member, his movements, his kisses (oh, gods, the kisses!) make her feel those ribbons of fire that her fingers sometimes tried to chase?

Lotte was right about one thing; marriage had secrets that nobody told you. This restlessness that wasn't precisely anticipation and wasn't exactly an ache. It flared occasionally, a throb in time with her pulse, and then she couldn't sit still, and she started wishing Rumplestiltskin would come and show her more of the secrets.

Even if he'd scared her, and spoken of her flesh like he held it cheap. Even if she'd rather not see him or talk to him because he'd hurt her feelings and crushed her wrist too hard, and stolen her ribbon.

Anger didn't sit well with the other feeling. Belle knew that vague discomforts came upon women before they could be sure they were carrying a child, but it was too soon for that. And this was an _empty_ feeling, like thirst or hunger. An itch just out of reach, aggravated when she remembered the sound of Rumplestiltskin breathing hard in her ear, or those muffled exclamations of enjoyment while he finished.

Belle looked down at her feet. Her toes had curled up all by themselves.

Cross with herself, Belle spent a while going through her trunk in search of an apron. There wasn't one among her trousseau, nor did she have sheets to sew into one. They weren't needed here. Rumplestiltskin not only had exquisite linens on the bed, but ones that made themselves tidy while Belle's back was turned, and smelled as fresh as the day she'd arrived.

She changed for bed and fetched a different book, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her in the fireside chair, too distracted to do more than skim the pages. That was how Rumplestiltskin found her, arriving silently at her door, which she'd left open a crack in the perverse hope of proving to him that he didn't frighten her.

Rumplestiltskin rapped his knuckles softly on the wood, entered meekly when she half turned her head towards the sound, waiting near the threshold for some sign that he was welcome.

She'd insisted he come to her bed and now he was here. What would he do if she sent him away?

Belle's confusion... it felt like drowning in her own disarray.

"You can't sleep?" Rumplestiltskin ventured a step nearer. When she didn't answer, he approached warily, crouching between Belle's chair and the fireplace. He balanced neatly on his toes, staring up at her. Watchful. Curious. Concerned? Yes. She'd learned to recognise anxiety in that face. Hope, too. He wanted to lie with her again and didn't want her to despise him for that.

"I was about to go to bed," Belle lied. Lies didn't come easily to her, but filling the silence seemed more important than the choice of words. She hadn't the words to explain the tumult, even if he wanted to hear them.

Rumplestiltskin rose as she did, unfolding himself with athletic grace and bouncing on his toes before settling, half smiling, and looking her up and down.

"A new nightdress?"

"An old one," Belle said, glancing down self-consciously. She'd ruined the one she wore last night, so it was stuffed into the washstand, waiting for her to learn how to become a laundress. This nightdress was embroidered all over, but far from new. It showed more bare skin than the one for her wedding night, stopping short at her elbows and shins and buttoning at the yoke.

Rumplestiltskin reached for her waist with both hands. Belle gasped aloud, his touch meeting her riot of unfamiliar yearnings like a bucket of ice water.

It was as if she'd shoved him, he recoiled so fast from her reaction.

"Not so willing, now?" he spat. That cruel sneer was back, never far away, and his voice dripped acid as he leaned forward to whisper, "I see," in Belle's ear. He kept his hands behind his back, that elegant pose of his, and his cheek twitched as he mastered some frightful rage. "Not so willing in the light, madam?"

Belle did push him, then, but without strength in her arms. Without passion. She didn't want him gone, only that gloating, mocking expression and that hateful tone of voice, both ready and waiting to pounce on her first moment of hesitation. He _wanted_ her to spoil things, to break her word, so he could crow and preen and hate the world, and have everything just as he predicted it would be. He was _waiting_ for her to fail.

"No, you don't see!" she cried, half frustration and half dismay. " _I_ don't, so you can't possibly!" Now, Rumplestiltskin looked as though she'd struck him—lips parted in surprise, eyes wide at her tone, her stance, her fierceness. "I'm a mess! There's so much I don't understand. You frightened me earlier, hurt me," she accused, showing him her wrist and then cradling it to her bosom, "but I've sat here all night thinking about going to bed with you, and feeling so strange I can hardly _think_. I don't know how a wife should feel. If you wanted someone who would then you shouldn't have chosen me!"

She spent herself in the outburst—relief flooding into the space left by her grievances, her confusion. Sheer stubbornness kept her from bursting into tears all over again, but Rumplestiltskin couldn't miss the quaver in her voice or the glistening in her eyes. He bowed his head, averting his gaze as though she'd become naked, and Belle looked at the floor as well.

He wanted to leave. She could _feel_ it, like that living magic of his was trying to drag him to the door, leave Belle to her self-pity. However much he wanted to come to bed, that was outmatched by his alarm. Hadn't he proved that he wouldn't touch her until he knew she was willing? Her reluctance would be a bitter prize, but he half wanted it. It would be easier than facing Belle every day.

He stayed, shifting nervously from foot to foot; hovering close to Belle without touching.

She wished he'd comfort her, and that was insane when she'd all but shouted him out of her room! What was _wrong_ with her?!

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat.

"Was I... perhaps..." Clasping his hands together, he drifted them in the direction of the bed, meaningful, "Too forceful?" he finished, his voice nearly vanishing into a show of delicacy. "If you're in pain—"

"Oh, no!" Horrified, Belle forgot herself and looked him in the eye. "Oh, not that. Not that." She also gestured vaguely to the bed. Rumplestiltskin's visible alarm subsided somewhat, and he nodded. Waited. The silence drew out, becoming unbearable until Belle blurted, "I felt so..." But there it was again, the root of her problem; she'd _felt_ so, yet didn't understand what it meant or know what to do with it. "I truly don't want you to go. "I... I think I want to. I don't know how to... want to." This time, she barely forced her hand to twitch towards the four-poster. Thankfully, she couldn't turn any redder than she already had.

Rumplestiltskin nodded again, hesitant at first, then decisive.

"Come, then," he said, with confidence that Belle knew he couldn't feel. Instead of going over to the bed, he sat down in Belle's chair and patted his left knee, encouragingly. "Sit here a while."

"I'm sorry."

"Now, now. Sit." He fluttered a hand to dismiss her guilt, then patted his knee again. "Sit with me. Rest a little while."

It was an offer, not a request. It seemed to offer some promise of guidance, the hope that one of them knew what they were doing, so Belle lowered herself onto Rumplestiltskin's knee. This was a girlhood thing, balancing on a grown-up's knee, but this felt nothing like she remembered from her childhood. Papa's knee meant laughter, tickles, and fondness. The same with her nurse, who taught her lessons in rhyme, bouncing Belle to the tune to help her remember the rhythm of the words. Perfect innocence. But this was her husband's knee, a grown man's knee and she a grown woman, and whatever she felt when she made contact with his leather trousers, innocence had no part in it.

Rumplestiltskin took the whole of her weight, leaning back in the chair and tipping Belle's body against him, moving her without effort until her head rested next to his on the chair back and his left arm snugly encircled her waist. It would have been uncomfortable, were he not so strong, but he was able to hold her easily, allowing Belle to cease all effort at remaining upright and rest her body against his, instead. With his free hand, Rumplestiltskin touched her cheek, doing nothing more until she gave him a brave little smile of apology and thanks.

"Now then," he murmured, wiggling his fingers vigorously, as though about to perform a conjuring trick. Belle laughed, relieved, relaxing, and watched his hand move towards her body. He gave her breast a squeeze, giving a nervous, high-pitched giggle when he removed his hand again, as though he'd got away with something naughty. Then he caressed the other breast, her right, the one nearest his body. Belle watched everything, hypnotised by the sight. His skin and nails looked dark against her nightgown, but it was the same hand that touched her in the dark, always gentle. She let herself see it—green skin, black nails, scales that glistened in the firelight—then let the shock pass away at the reminder of his gentleness.

"Tell me what pleases you," said Rumplestiltskin, an intimate murmur, his open palm warm against her chest. "Do exactly as you wish. Tell me, most especially, if anything I do doesn't meet with your liking."

Belle nodded. This was a sort of lesson, and he the tutor, but he looked to her for the answers.

"That pleases me," she said, guiding his hand back to her left breast. It was hard to find her voice while he held her spellbound, but he wanted to know how to please her. Where, now, was the beast who grabbed her wrist to keep her from the poison?

With a quiet grunt of approval, Rumplestiltskin shifted her weight, settling them both more comfortably in the cramped chair, then devoted his attention to her breast. He plucked with all his fingertips, lightly, finishing by dragging the cloth of her nightgown away from her skin. The puff of air as it fell back against her made Belle shiver and Rumplestiltskin frowned, concentrating harder on just her breast. He went on plucking until her nipple grew firm, only to rub it with his palm as though trying to soften it again. Almost squashing it. Belle bit her lip, not sure she liked that—not sure how to tell if she didn't like it. It awoke that nagging emptiness when he did that, and she didn't like the way it demanded, but, oh, she liked that he touched her at all. That he devoted every ounce of his attention to delicately, patiently, exploring how her body reacted to his caress. Without warning, Rumplestiltskin pinched her nipple, quite hard, and Belle gasped aloud as the grasping need inside her flared, consumed her, faded. Left her fighting a moan and incapable of telling him how he'd made her feel, even if she'd thought to try. He did it again, softer this time, then circled her nipple with his fingertip, scratched it very lightly with his fingernail, and then Belle couldn't sit still. Her lower body bunched up tight until he stopped touching, then relaxed as she sighed the tension away with a helpless shudder. Lost for words, explanations, Belle pulled Rumplestiltskin's hand tightly against her breast and held it there. He couldn't mistake the meaning of _that_.

He didn't.

"I think, mistress, that a particular _need_ is what ails you," he said, smiling, amused, but not even a little bit cruel this time. Belle thought he sounded rather smug. "Won't you try my potion, my dear?" He voiced the endearment as he gave another little pinch that made her gasp, a blaze of need burning down through her like a miniature lightning strike, grounding between her thighs. "It's a good one," he said, and Belle tried to spare him the presence of mind to listen, to comprehend his words. "My own brew. Efficacy absolutely guaranteed. So much pleasure you'll scream." A pause. "Me too, I should think."

Scream? She felt like screaming now! But Belle's tongue wouldn't move itself to shape a refusal, so she shook her head instead, curling herself up in his lap to ease the pressure of his thigh. She was leaking all over him again.

"As you wish." Bemused, accepting, Rumplestiltskin cupped her breast again. Belle nodded approval, relief, gratitude. Do that, do more of that. Yes, yes. He wanted the words, and she couldn't give them, but she thought he understood why. She curled her fingers behind his neck, convulsive with his every movement, demonstrating what she was unable to say. Yes, this, yes.

When he stopped touching her, Belle whimpered, but Rumplestiltskin began to unfasten the pearl buttons at her throat, one by one and so delicately that she thought again of his spinning, of how the fine thread passed through his pinch before turning into gold.

She closed her eyes, accustomed modesty trying to spoil things now that he wanted to look at her. Well, modesty could go away. He'd been playing with her breast and she'd no complaints about that; he might as well see it. This was all blameless anyway, husband and wife, and when Rumplestiltskin loosened the lowest button and slid his hand across her skin beneath the gown, cupping her breast to bring it into view, Belle forgot how she could ever have minded him looking. The backs of his hands were coarse with scale, but his palms were supple and smooth; one fit around her bare breast so perfectly, warming the nipple that felt too sensitive to any cold now it was firm. She could practically _feel_ him looking—looking at her little breast in his hand, half-hidden by her nightdress.

Belle's whole body quivered, straining against something she didn't comprehend. Then she recognised it, a revelation. _He_ had trembled this way on their wedding night. She'd thought he was frightened and maybe he was, but this too. This helpless quiver. Did Rumplestiltskin feel like _this_ when he entered her? The notion took Belle's breath away, for she was learning to recognise a longing in all the new sensations. This was need. This was _wanting_ , the fully flowered daughter of those threads of half-yearning that eluded her own fingers, and Rumplestiltskin knew exactly what to do to make it blossom in her.

Dizzy, Belle opened her eyes and tried to focus on Rumplestiltskin. She felt she ought to share this realisation with him, to explain her odd behaviour. But she still couldn't fathom the right words, not with her head whirling and her body crying out. Rumplestiltskin had put out the candles, but they still had the firelight. Belle made out his shape, familiar, but he'd still hidden himself in her shadow. Thought he was too hideous. She thought him too patient, too kind for an ignorant wife. A few tears got away from her before she bit her lip and managed to stop them. She couldn't let him misunderstand, not when he was showing her this, so patient with her. Not when his touch felt like _this_.

Her nightgown was stifling her. When she'd pulled it on it felt familiar, fresh and pleasant. Now she perspired as if she'd blushed all over, yet even that uncomfortable warmth had a pleasant edge to it, as the heavy ache in her loins now did, and the increasing wetness between her legs did. Even through leather, Rumplestiltskin must be able to feel it by now. Another teasing tweak of her nipple sent another spike of heat downwards to stoke what had become a furnace of heat and tightness between her legs, greedy for more.

Rumplestiltskin breathed noisily, his face pressed into her hair. Belle remembered how she'd enjoyed his pleasure last night—how it pleased her to offer her body if it delighted him so, to answer some need. _This_ need. Was he enjoying her now, finding pleasure in giving it?

She'd been expecting... no, ready for... no... _wishing_ for his hand between her thighs, just like when prepared her before. When he dragged up her nightgown and, instead, pulled Belle's own hand down there, she cried out. Rumplestiltskin held her there, hand covering hers, cupping her wetness and then—oh, sweet stars—moving her own palm across every aching, waiting, wanting inch of slippery flesh, their mated movements cramped and awkward between her legs. She could open them no wider without moving from where she sat; she no more wanted to move from here than to throw herself into the fire. It was torment, and it was beautiful, and she barely comprehended when Rumplestiltskin spoke.

"Guide my hand," he demanded, gruff with urgency, voice deeper than she'd heard before. "Show me. Take what you will. Deny yourself nothing."

Belle obeyed him without a thought, as if she'd have done the same whether he spoke or not. She guided their wet hands, moving his into place to cup her, to press hot skin against her, everywhere, then curled her fingers and felt his curl too, catching at the little bud down there, and Belle saw stars behind her eyelids. The agreeable sensation of coupling had been _nothing_ next to this; she wanted this forever, but the enormity of it was consuming her, and surely nothing like this lasted in the world?

Rumplestiltskin half-whispered encouragements, his mouth brushing hot against her ear, his tongue flicking at her as though he longed for a kiss and could barely hold back. Belle moved his hand faster, faster, until she could move no more and cried out again and again when he kept on doing it after her hand fell away, limp and helpless. Harder, harder, faster, his breath, her breath, his gulp in her ear, the moans she stifled with lips pressed tight together, then something broke in her. Pulsing joy, pure, shaking her from the inside, over and over and over until she struggled in his arms, fighting for it, fighting to escape it, utterly overpowered.

Her cries became weeping as the astonishing sensations ebbed; frantic, foolish weeping against his shoulder while she beat his chest with her closed fist and Rumplestiltskin clutched her to his body until this storm passed as well.

He didn't let go until Belle tried to draw away, then he steadied her firmly with both hands and set her upright on his knee, where she swayed like a drunkard.

"Did... did that ease matters?" he asked, so timidly that she almost laughed. He must know the answer? Surely?

"I think it did," she said and found that her voice became a dreamy sigh, croaky with spent tears and boneless drowsiness. "Oh, I think it did."

"Very good."

"I... Um. I didn't know about that," she mumbled, and it was Rumplestiltskin's turn to stifle a laugh.

"I hadn't noticed," he said, gallantly. They smiled. "Are you done, dear?"

"Done?" Belle parroted, aghast. How could there be more than _that_?

"Because I think I am." Languid, his smile waxing wicked for a moment, Rumplestiltskin passed a hand and a glow of magic over the front of his breeches, causing Belle to stare where she usually wouldn't think of staring.

He'd... While she'd...

_Oh._

"Is that meant to happen?" Belle's voice wobbled with uncertainty, but nothing could disturb the sense of wellbeing washing over her now.

"The way you were carrying on, it's practically guaranteed," Rumplestiltskin assured her, deadpan. Perfectly untroubled.

And she hadn't even noticed!

Rumplestiltskin rose, lifting Belle without effort and setting her down carefully on the hearthrug. Weak-kneed, Belle reached for him at once and put her arms around him, all the way, her face against his collar and her hands splayed against his back. She didn't want this closeness to end. Rumplestiltskin embraced her hesitantly, one arm locking around her while his free hand went to her hair and began to stroke. When Belle made no objection, Rumplestiltskin relaxed and continued, indulging himself by combing his fingers through her hair; gathering it into a bunch and letting it fall again.

She couldn't have imagined this, not with anyone, least of all with Rumplestiltskin. But resting against his body, soothed by the rhythmic caresses, Belle could imagine nothing else. No world beyond this embrace, this sweet moment.

When she lost her balance, too sleepy to master her own feet, Rumplestiltskin scooped her up in one swift, smooth motion, cradling her across his arms while Belle, hardly awake enough to be surprised, flopped against him. He was so steady beneath her weight that she could have slept there in his arms, but Rumplestiltskin carried her to the bed. Belle felt him work magic, but couldn't drag her eyes open to see what he'd done; understood a moment later when he placed her on cold, crisp sheets rather than on the covers, then draped the covers over her with his own two hands.

"Come to bed?" She wasn't sure she got the words out, reaching for him with an outstretched arm that felt heavy as lead.

Rumplestiltskin said nothing, bending over to cup her face in his palm for a moment. Then he caught her beseeching hand, squeezed it, and left her in the waiting arms of sleep.


End file.
